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“Miss Traumerei” 


A. WBIMAR IDYIv 


BY 


ALBERT MORRIS BAGBY 



Published by the Author 

52 Lafayette Place AC (Xj 0 i 

New York L> ^ ^ 

189s 


T2- 5 

HC. 


Copyright, 1895, by Albert Morris Bagby 

All rights reserved 


“MISS TRAUMEREI” 



FATHER AND MOTHER 


“MISS TRAUMEREr 



Hidden away in a secluded oblong basin formed by 
the green hills of Thuringia nestles sleepy little Wei- 
mar. Its narrow, crooked streets, ill-paved and lined 
by plain two and three-story stucco-walled houses, 
are confined to the old town proper. Their monot- 
onous irregularity is broken by the open, paved 
market and by the broadening of the way before the 
mediaeval city church, the theatre and post office, 
where an occasional bronze statue, public fountain 
or row of trees gives variety to the dreary stretch of 
stone and mortar. 

Facing the incline a few paces to the left of the 
market, a proud, many-windowed palace with a great 
rectangular court and quaint detached tower — the 
principal landmark for the tov/nsfolk — looms up on 
the left and lower bank of a brawling little stream 
dignified by the name of river. An ancient stone- 
arched bridge leads the approach to the military 
barracks, pleasure gardens and villas on the neigh- 


8 


<^MISS TRAUMEREI 


boring hill. Stretching upward from the palace, on 
both sides of the winding Ilm, the Grand Ducal Park, 
whose romantic nooks and seductive walks were 
planned by Duke Carl August and the immortal 
Goethe, terminates in the hamlet of Ober-Weimar. 
In the diametrically opposite quarter of the city 
broad, modem streets ascend gentle slopes to meet 
fields of waving grain, brilliant in summer with the 
crimson of the poppy and the deep blue of the corn- 
flower. At the lower extremity of the old town a 
handsome new museum faces an imposing residence 
street which climbs the hill to the ornamental Em- 
press Augusta Place before the railway station at the 
base of the lofty, forest-crowned Ettersberg. From 
the upper end of Weimar the magnificent Bel- 
vedere x\llee, with its long line of stately villas facing 
the open park, leads to Belvedere, the summer home of 
the Grand Duke, on the hill a mile-and-a-half distant. 
Flanking the junction of the Allee with the city street, 
stand, like the pillars of a huge gateway, companion 
houses — square, thick-walled and singularly plain. 

That on the left is noticeable as the former home 
of Franz Liszt. His apartments occupied the sec- 
ond, or top, floor. The lower rooms are still inhab- 
ited by the family of the court gardener. The royal 
garden, upon which the sole outer door of the house 
opens, is hedged from the public gaze by high dense 
foliage. It is reached by a narrow portal on the Allee 
at the corner of the residence and by a rustic gate 
at the end of a drive between long hot-houses, ex- 
tending from the gravelled space about the entry 


*<MISS. TRAUMEREI 


9 


door to the park. An old gabled tool-house with 
overhanging eaves, a clump of slender towering 
pines and a high latticed enclosure for poultry crowd 
close to the worn stone stoop at the further corner 
of the edifice, whose prison-like aspect is relieved 
by a sill full of gay scarlet geraniums in the dormer 
window under the low roof, and a row of tall exotics 
partially screening the neatly curtained windows of 
the ground floor. In this modest home Ihe great 
Master Liszt received each summer up to the year 
of his death young pianists whose talents and accom- 
plishments rendered them, in his judgment, worthy 
of his gratuitous instruction. 

One June morning, not a great while previous to 
the date which deprived the world of this greatest 
piano-virtuoso of any time, Pauline, his faithful house- 
keeper and cook, sat, knitting, on the settle before the 
house. She was a comely, rich-complexioned bru- 
nette of forty odd years, with glossy hair, bright eyes 
and a tall, robust figure. Her feet rested on a low 
foot-stool; for no sun had appeared by ten o’clock to 
dry the earth, soaked with a heavy rain the previous 
night. As usual, at this hour, all was quiet about 
the Royal Gardens save the occasional rattling of a 
carriage over the stony, city approach to the Belve- 
dere Allee, the low cooing of the pigeons on the roof 
of the tool-house or the shrill cackling from the hen- 
nery. The side gate clicked, and a tall spare form, 
with long flowing hair and broad-brimmed slouch 
hat, strode out from the cluster of bushy pot plants 
concealing the entrance. 


lO 


‘ ^MISS TRAUMEREI ” 


“Good morning, Pauline.” 

“Good morning, Herr von Ilmstedt,” responded 
the housekeeper in a pleasant voice. 

“Has the Master risen?” 

“No, he is still sleeping, but he has some important 
writing on hand and will receive no one this morn- 
ing. He gave orders, in case any of the pupils called, 
to say that there would be a lesson this afternoon.” 

“Ach, so!” he exclaimed, with habitual celerity. 
At this familiar rejoinder Pauline drew down the 
corners of her mouth and professed such ignorance 
in answer to questions about the Master with which 
he plied her that he soon called over his shoulder, 
“Adieu!” and disappeared as he came. 

“Of course,” she muttered contemptuously, listen- 
ing to his receding footsteps. “I knew he would be 
the first. Trust me to free this house of such bores! 
He imitates Herr Doctor in everything. I believe 
he would wear the coat of an Abbe, too, if he dared. 
Why, he has even begun to say ‘Sappremenf when he 
is surprised at anything. Ha, ha, ha!” 

“'How is that, Frau Pauline?” 

“Herr Je!” almost shouted the startled matron, 
jerking her face up to the light to meet a pair of 
glorious hazel eyes twinkling at her with amusement 
through a gap in the shrubbery on her right. “Du 
lieber Himmel!” she ejaculated impressively in fur- 
ther astonishment, at the same time dropping her 
knitting on the settle and rising in a stupefied fashion 
slowly to her feet. “Is it you. Miss Muriel?” 

“See for yourself, Frau Pauline,” laughed the pos- 


^‘MISS TRAUMEREI 


sessor of the handsome eyes, stepping into full view 
to receive a warm embrace and kiss for either 
cheek. 

Then Pauline, flushing with pleasure, held her off 
at arm’s length, exclaiming, “Mein Gott, how you 
did frighten me, arriving in that ghostlike fashion; 
but I am none the less delighted to see you!” 

“I slipped in on tiptoe to avoid being seen by Ilm- 
stedt. He came up the Allee just as I entered it from 
the city.” 

“I sent him off in a hurry,” added Pauline, with a 
mocking grimace; “luckily, too, for now I can hear 
something of you, while Herr Doctor finishes his 
nap.” 

“How is the dear Master?” There was a touch 
of tenderness and reverence in the inquiry which the 
speaker’s eyes reflected. 

“Ach!” began Pauline, with a gesture more elo- 
quent than words; “never in better health; but you 
will see for yourself presently. Please be seated and 
tell me everything.” Lifting the half-knit stocking 
from the settle, she placed herself in a listening atti- 
tude and resumed work. 

“Very well, when you seat yourself,” was the re- 
sponse; “you will take cold standing there on the 
damp earth.” 

Pauline, flashing a grateful look, murmured 
“Thanks!” and took the proffered seat on the fur- 
ther end of the settle. 

Although long service and responsible position had 
elevated her rank in the household, she never forgot 


12 


‘^MISS TRAUMEREr^ 


the restrictions imposed by caste, and tempered her 
familiar treatment of Liszt’s divers pupils with pro- 
portionate deference. The few who addressed her 
respectfully as Frau Pauline, however, won her high- 
est regard. Of these Muriel Holme, whom she called 
“Missey,” ostensibly intending compliment to her 
nationality, but secretly as the easiest, most excusable 
word of endearment, was her prime favorite. 

Indeed, nearly every one loved and admired Muriel 
Holme. Many another gentlewoman might have as 
shapely, and graceful a figure and dress in as excel- 
lent taste, but few could compete with her in personal 
charm and magnetism. Though she was not hand- 
some in the common acceptance of the term, the 
general contour of her features was refined and high- 
bred, and her hazel eyes, not noticeable in moments 
of repose, the instant she spoke, darkened and 
gleamed with a quick intelligence which fascinated 
the beholder. She was of medium height, graceful 
and dignified in every movement. Her voice was 
agreeable and well modulated; in conversation it 
was not so much what she said as how she said it 
that held the attention of the listener. Her innate 
modesty caused her to undervalue her own attrac- 
tiveness and tinged her utterances with a charity as 
delightful as it was rare. In her presence one knew 
instinctively the underlying strength and purity of 
her character. In brief, her personality was so 
marked that she drew to herself the instant sympathy 
of strangers without fully realizing herself to be the 
magnet. The ready tact which enabled her to deepen 


^^MISS TRAUMEREI 


13 


tliat first favorable impression was the key to her 
wide popularity. 

“Well, when did you reach Weimar?” asked Pau- 
line, knitting industriously, with her smiling eyes 
fixed on Muriel. 

“Last night at nine o’clock.” 

“Again at Frau von Berwitz’s? But of course,” 
exclaimed Pauline, answering her own question, “you 
would never go elsewhere!” 

“Never, unless Frau von Berwitz sent me away. 
It is the only place now where I feel at home, and 
she is like a mother to me. Ah, Frau Pauline,” 
said Muriel impulsively, a sudden look of ec- 
stasy illuminating her face, “I can’t express the 
happiness I felt at once more opening my eyes 
in my dear, silent old gable room this morning; 
to see the pink and white roses hanging in great 
clusters about the windows, to inhale their sweet, 
fresh fragrance, to lie there and dream — waking — of 
nothing, only knowing peace, rest, contentment!” 

Muriel’s nature was a curious mixture of the artis- 
tic and practical. The inevitable result of yielding to 
the former tendency had influenced her early musical 
life. Therefore she sought now to gain a more tran- 
quil mentality, and thereby a superior foundation for 
her own artistic growth, by a zealous and constant 
search for general knowledge. A noble, enlightened 
womanhood crowned her efforts; but, here, in the in- 
tensely musical atmosphere of Weimar, the luxury- 
craving side of her nature irresistibly demanded ex- 
pression. 


14 


‘ ^MISS TRAUMEREI ” 


At so unusual an expression of feeling Pauline 
gave her a scrutinizing look, noticing for the first 
time a slight pallor in her face, from which the first 
deceptive flush of welcome was gradually fading. 

“You have been overworking again, Missey,” she 
said. 

Muriel glanced up with all the old light in her 
eyes. “Oh, no,” she exclaimed, in a convincing 
tone; “I never do that; I am always very well, ready 
for everything; but the heat and dust of Berlin 
have been intolerable the past fortnight. This place 
is a garden of enchantment in comparison.” She 
dropped her head gently back into the rich foli- 
age rising high behind the settle, and pressed the 
green leaves lovingly to her face. “I shall rest 
for a few days, if tlijere is no present necessity for play- 
ing in the lessons. Are many of the pupils in town?” 

“Very few.” 

“When is the first lesson?” 

“This afternoon.” 

“Oh, then, I must begin work at once.” 

“Herr Doctor, will not expect it if you need rest,” 
said Pauline. 

“He shall not know it, for, if he gives his time for 
the lessons, there must be some one to play. I in- 
tended being idle for a week. He wrote me from 
Aachen that he would not return before the twenti- 
eth of this month ” 

“He surprised us all by coming back so soon,” in- 
terposed Pauline, with a glance of inquiry at the 
upper windows. 


‘ ‘MISS TRA UMEREI ” 1 5 

“Ah, well, I can take my vacation later, when 
the class fills up.” 

“Herr Doctor has risen!” announced the house- 
keeper abruptly. “I hear him moving about.” 

Muriel’s dreamy languor vanished instantly. 

“Then I shall go up at once, before any one else 
comes,” she said, rising with animation and readjust- 
ing her hat, which had been jostled by contact with 
the foliage. “Michael is there to let me in, is he not? 
Very well, then, I will see you when I come down.” 


CHAPTER II. 

Mounting the four worn stone steps to the square 
entrance hall, Muriel crossed a threshold on the right 
and followed the winding stair to the landing before 
Liszt’s apartments. The door of the music-room on 
the left, being unlocked for special occasions only, 
was, as usual, closed; the one before her stood open, 
revealing the length of the narrow ante-chamber 
where Michael, the Hungarian valet, faithfully 
guarded the venerable Master’s privacy. At first 
glance he was not to be seen; but a strong odor of 
brandy, that sent her back apace, and a measured, 
rasping snore which made the walls of the little apart- 
ment tremble, told their own tale. A smile flitted 
over her bright expectant face ^t sight of a stout 
boot protruding from the green baize curtains con- 
cealing the couch at the end of the room. Hesitating 
an instant in uncertainty, whether to try to rouse the 
valet or to appeal to Pauline for assistance, she failed 
to hear the dining-room door swing noiselessly back. 
A voice, thick from sleep, startled her by calling, 
“Michael!” A snoring crescendo from within the 
curtains was the sole response, as the Master him- 
self, following the tones of his voice, shuffled slug- 
gishly into the room, glanced helplessly in the direc- 
tion of the hidden couch, and then turned to retreat. 
He appeared very old at that moment, with his eyes 
still heavy from slumber. His thick mass of silky 
hair was dishevelled, and stood out from the grand 


17 


<‘MISS TRAUMEREI” 

rugged head in flufify white cascades descending to 
his shoulders. Perspiration bedewed the broad, high 
forehead and deeply-lined, powerful face, now flushed 
from sleeping in a close room. His once tall, spare 
form was bowed with age and comfortably corpulent. 
His white-hosed feet were thrust into easy, heelless 
house slippers, and he wore a black suit with sack 
coat of velvet. A black silk neckerchief hung un- 
knotted over a pleated shirt-front, which had been 
loosened at the throat. Muriel stood like a statue, 
fearing a breath would draw his attention to her. 
He glanced up, saw her, advanced a step and darted 
her a penetrating look, with a mien of severity which 
would have rebuffed a stranger. A glimmer of rec- 
ognition ruffled the sombre expression of his face, 
and broke into a smile of pleasure as he extended his 
arms, exclaiming in accents still husky, “Is it possi- 
ble! My dear Amerika!” 

“Dear Master!” responded Muriel, affectionately, 
as he grasped both her hands, kissing her lightly on 
the forehead — his customary salute to ladies of good 
acquaintance. “I am indeed glad to see you once 
more.” 

“Ah, dear friend,” he said, this time in German, 
“you are always very welcome; but step into the 
music-room a moment until I make myself more 
presentable. As you see, I am scarcely ready to re- 
ceive a visit from a lady. I must be my own valet 
this morning,” he added, motioning ruefully at 
Michael’s boot. “Poor fellow! He is worn out. We 
came home late and he is just getting his sleep after 


i8 ^<MTSS TRAUMEREr* 

putting things to rights. But come!” Taking her 
arm they entered the dining-room together, Muriel 
asking if she should not summon Pauline to help him. 

^Tf you will be so kind,” he answered, disappearing 
hastily through the bedchamber door opposite, as 
if ashamed of his disorderly appearance. Muriel 
turned into the music-room on her left — an oblong 
apartment comprising the garden front of the house. 
It was darkened, the atmosphere close and stifling. 
The Master had been napping here, and the impress 
of his head was visible on the white sofa-pillow at the 
side of an inner door to his sleeping-room. Open- 
ing a window, Muriel called the housekeeper, after 
which she rolled up the white blinds and spread 
wide the other casements. Then beating the pillow 
into shape, she gave a few hasty, necessary touches 
to the general order of the salon to make it the more 
attractive to the sharp-eyed host when he came in. 
The Master was accustomed to these thoughtful at- 
tentions from Muriel, and never forgot to take verbal 
notice. Consequently she had come to regard them 
as her special privilege. It gratified her ambition; 
gave her, in fact, inexpressible heart delight, for Liszt 
had been not only the distant guiding star erf her 
earliest musical life, but now, in this new near rela- 
tionship of teacher and friend, instead of falling from 
his pedestal he had became an object of veneration 
and love. Therefore she made a final survey of the 
room with a satisfaction which she had frequently 
craved since leaving it the previous autumn. 

The general arrangement was the same as at her 


^^MISS TRAUMEREI 


19 


first acquaintance. There, before the window over- 
looking the Allee, stood the Master’s broad, flat- 
topped, well-equipped writing-desk, adorned with 
conspicuous easel portraits of the Princess Wittgen- 
stein and Hans von Biilow; a bronze dish of the fa- 
vorite cigars — long, slender and strong; another for 
collecting cigar tips, to be converted later into snuff 
and the proceeds of the sale applied to orphan char- 
ities — a common practice in Germany; a large, flat 
shell for cigar ashes, and, on a sliding extension, 
a cut glass decanter of cognac, a second one of water 
and a half-filled tumbler of the mixture. A vermil- 
ion silk handkerchief and a pair of spectacles lay be- 
side a half-finished letter in the Master’s unique chir- 
ography. At the side of a comfortable leather chair, 
there stood a spacious waste-basket, from which the 
pupils culled, year after year, the choicest odds and 
ends not already seized by the servants, who were, 
however, quite willing to let them go again for a 
financial consideration. A concert grand piano ex- 
tended before the first two windows, and behind the 
player’s stool was a long sofa, on which new pupils 
were prone to seat themselves in full view, after their 
first performance, as on a judgment seat, and suffer 
untold agonies of mind if they had not tact enough to 
slip away. This clumsy piece of furniture and an 
upright piano — used only to supply the orchestral 
part to concertos — stood in line against the side wall. 
Under the mantel, on the inner wall by the dining- 
room door, stood a round card-table, where the pupils 
deposited their music during the lesson; and a little 


20 


‘ ‘MISS TRA UMEREI ’’ 


beyond, near the parti-colored portiere, dividing the 
length of the salon, was another table laden with mis- 
cellaneous periodicals in various languages. Two 
handsome lamps ornamented the marble slab, upon 
which rested a gilt pier-glass at one side of the door 
to the bedchamber. Some bric-^-brac on a table in 
the further corner behind the writing desk, a pot of 
flowering begonias at its base, a few scattered prints 
and hanging casts along the white, gilt-corniced walls, 
a number of cherry-wood chairs, upholstered in ma- 
roon velvet, and a sober green carpet completed 
the furnishing of this room. The piano was stacked 
high with new music and books, mostly the gifts of 
authors, and to these Muriel had turned to read their 
written inscriptions and autographs, when the side 
door opened and the Master, now quite wide awake 
and spruce of appearance in a new black house-coat, 
stepped lightly into the salon. 

“So you are again in the little nest Weimar for the 
summer! Not a bad place to come to, is it? I con- 
fess that 1 am heartily glad to be here once more my- 
self.” He spoke cheerily in his progress across the 
room, and as he put out his hands to give her a sec- 
ond welcome, Muriel said: “Indeed, dear Master, it 
would not be Weimar without you.” He shook 
her hands warmly at this avowal, laughing in a jovial 
way, as if to imply: “I hear much of that sort of 
thing; but you, I know, are true, and I believe you.” 

If the spirit of the coquette were in Muriel she was 
quite clever enough to conceal it, for she impressed all 
alike with her sincerity. It was the secret of her 


^^MISS TRAUMEREI 


21 


strong hold upon the Master, surrounded, as he was, 
by a coterie of young artists, too many of whom 
tried to effect a way to his good graces by fawning 
servility. Her open-faced frankness and that rare 
dignity of character born of purity and self-respect, 
would have given her a first place in his esteem and 
affections had she been less gifted musically than she 
was. 

“And while you are here,” continued Muriel, smil- 
ing a response to his laugh, “it must be comfortable 
for you. There is too much draught in this room.” 
Taking this opportunity to release her hands, she 
closed the first two windows before the Master, who 
had followed leisurely, could overtake her. “Thanks ! 
Thanks!” he murmured, “but it is not necessary.” 

“Safer at any rate,” Muriel replied, decisively, un- 
derstanding him too thoroughly ever to question his 
preferences. “You are looking so much better than last 
year, dear Master, that I hope to see you remain so.” 

“I am better — I am better!” he exclaimed. Hastily — 
the subject of his health never having become a fa- 
vorite one with him, even under pain of the severest 
malady. “The visit to Aachen was most beneficial 
to me.” At this admission he straightened up and 
walked briskly across to the reading-table. 

“And a most enjoyable visit, too,” he added, as an 
after-thought. “I met dear friends there whom I 
had not seen for many years. Here is the pro- 
gramme of a concert given by the local singing 
society.” “In my honor,” he might have added, but 
modesty forbade. “It was good— very good!” Lift- 


22 


< ^MISS TRA UMEREI ’ ' 


ing a gorgeously conceived fancy in white satin, with 
blue script, he held it up for Muriel’s inspection. This 
began a recital of fresh reminiscences, which he pur- 
sued at length near the open window, glancing from 
time to time at the multi-colored glory of the garden 
against the verdant background of the park. The 
low cooing of the pigeons and the spasmodic music 
from the hennery, mellowed by distance, kept up a 
running accompaniment, which he seemed to follow 
with pleasure. Mild woodland breezes crept gently 
into the salon and faintly stirred the snowy locks of 
the venerable Master. Into his rugged, powerful 
face, SO suggestive of the awe-inspiring gloom of 
mighty mountains, had crept a look of peaceful repose, 
which Muriel had not seen there since their earliest 
acquaintance. He had chosen this tranquil home for 
old age, and in her heart she hoped that he might 
live many more years to enjoy it. She was not- 
ing the Master’s robust appearance as a subject of 
congratulation, not only to himself, but to the pupils 
who had borne the brunt of his irritability, aggra- 
vated by disease during the past two seasons, when 
the clicking of the Allee gate and the disjointed mur- 
mur of familiar, masculine voices below the window 
interrupted fugitive meditations. The Master heard 
the sound also, and, resting both hands on the stone 
sill, leaned forward to greet the young men, whose 
impending visit gave him apparent pleasure. “Ho, 
ho, August — Arthur — Holland!” 

“Good-morning, Master!” rose in trio from be- 
low. There was a little peal of laughter at this sud- 


‘ ‘MISS TRAUMEREI 


23 


den and unexpected appearance of the Master, to 
which he responded with a chuckle of amusement. 

“May we come up?” 

“Certainly, certainly !” 

At this abrupt termination of their tete-^-tete, and 
foreseeing a series of visits for that morning, Muriel 
signified her intent to depart. “Play something this 
afternoon in the class. Anything that you will!” 
the Master said, accompanying her to the exit and 
giving her a parting kiss on the forehead. “So, 
aufwiedersehen, dear — Ah, ha, ha, ha!” The young 
men had rushed eagerly up the stairway, and their 
appearance at the salon door was the signal for 
a jovial reception by the Master. Muriel exchanged 
civilities with two of them, and departed unperceived 
in the midst of their animated chatter. She found 
their delinquent companion in the ante-room holding 
back the bed curtains with one hand and tickling 
Michael’s nose with the forefinger of the other. The 
valet brushed his fac'e with his arm, groaning dis- 
mally. 

“Let him alone, ITerr Arthur,” said Muriel, invol- 
untarily sharing his mirth. “The poor fellow is worn 
out.” 

“Ach, Fraulein! I am heartily glad to see you 
again!” exclaimed the impulsive tormentor, spring- 
ing forward to greet her, and forgetting his victim for 
the moment. When Muriel started downstairs, Ar- 
thur entered the salon and left Michael snoring with 
renewed vigor behind the green baize curtains, serene- 
ly unconscious of the entertainment he had furnished. 


CHAPTER III. 

At exactly half-past three o’clock Michael, once 
more restored to his bowing and smiling alertness, 
stood in his little guard-room, ushering the first ar- 
rival for the lesson into the dining-room to await the 
Master’s waking. He was a tall, heavily-built Hun- 
garian of thirty odd summers, with a shrewd, deter- 
mined face and authoritative manner. He could be 
disagreeable when occasion demanded, but to-day 
he was apparently as happy to see a renewal of the old 
life at the Royal Gardens as Pauline herself, whose 
cheery voice floated up faintly from her station at the 
house-door, whither she had taken her knitting in 
order to engage her favorites in a brief chat before 
they entered. Ten young people of both sexes strag- 
gled in, singly or in pairs, deposited hats and sun- 
shades on a low chest of drawers and the valet’s 
trunk, and disappeared through the side door. They 
were grouped about the dining-room, conversing in 
subdued tones, whenever Michael appeared at short 
intervals to softly open the salon door, take a sur- 
reptitious peep within and retreat with a shake of his 
head at the score of inquiring eyes turned upon him. 

“He is oversleeping,” said Ilmstedt, yawning and 
looking at his watch. “It is four, already.” A slight 
noise from the other room reached his ear. He hur- 
ried out for the valet, who dashed precipitately 
through to the salon with noise enough to rouse the 


<UMISS TRAUMEREI 


25 


Master, had he still been sleeping. Again all was silent; 
and Ilmstedt once more consulted his timepiece and 
yawned before Michael threw back the door with a 
flourish to permit the aged Master to advance to the 
threshold, smiling and extending his hands in a 
general greeting. The pupils pressed forward, each 
of the ladies receiving a kiss of welcome on 
the forehead as she slowly entered the salon. Stand- 
ing by the grand piano, the Master then gave the gen- 
tlemen his hand, and some of them he drew forward 
to kiss his cheek. He had a cordial word and smile 
of welcome for each. Michael closed the procession, 
which filed past him out into the room, and, leaning 
over him, whispered in his ear. 

“Ask him in!’’ was the audible response. A mo- 
ment later, a tall youth with a white, scared face en- 
tered and neared the group at the piano. Having- 
averted his head to speak to some one on his right, 
the Master failed to see the stranger trembling be- 
fore him. Muriel noticed him sitting before the 
house as she came in, and surmised his transatlantic 
origin at a glance. Pauline said he was the bearer 
of letters to the Master, which he had delivered, with- 
out getting an audience, that morning. With com- 
passion for her scared countryman, Muriel touched 
the Master’s arm to gain his attention. In turning, 
he saw the new-comer. 

“Ah!” he exclaimed, graciously extending his hand, 
“Bonjour!” 

The American made a profound obeisance, and 
then, too embarrassed to speak, stood as if rooted to 


26 


‘ ‘MISS TRi UMEREI ” 


the spot. A voice whispered to him in English: 
“Now is your chance. Ask him if you may attend 
the lessons. Make haste!” it added, as the youth 
parted his colorless lips in an ineffectual effort to ar- 
ticulate a sound. 

“May I ask permission to ” he began with a 

spasmodic gasp. 

“Pardon me!” exclaimed Liszt, stopping the re- 
newed conversation, to smile benignly at him and 
turn a listening ear. 

“May I ask the privilege of ” He could get no 

further. A sudden and awful silence reigned in the 
room. He could hear his own voice uttering the 
most execrable German he had ever spoken ; he 
could see before him Liszt — the Liszt wiiom he had 
worshipped from afar as a supreme being — and sur- 
rounding him a half-dozen celebrated young con- 
cert pianists all watching him. The faces multi- 
plied a hundredfold. The room danced up and down 
before his eyes. His brain was in a whirl. It was 
the space of an instant, though it seemed to him an 
hour, when the same friendly voice whispered softly, 

this time in German, “ of attending the lessons?” 

of attending the lessons?” he repeated me- 
chanically. 

“You may play something presently,” said the 
Master in a non-committal sort of way, and maybe 
just to have a little innocent fun with the youth; for 
he had, doubtless, summed up his good points at a 
glance, being an extraordinary judge of men. 

The bewildered petitioner felt himself swallowed 


^^MISS TRAUMEREI 


27 


up in the ensuing hum of voices. Relieved to es- 
cape at any price, he found refuge in the corner, 
where he stood, unobserved, mopping the great beads 
of perspiration from his brow, and wondering who his 
unseen benefactor could be. 

‘‘Well,” said Liszt, after a little, “Miss Muriel shall 
open the lesson, for she was the first to welcome me 
home this morning.” 

At this information Herr von Ilmstedt was violently 
attacked by his chronic complaint: insane jealousy of 
the Master’s favors or attentions. However, he 
rarely spoke at such times; so no one gave the least 
heed to his sulky bearing. He was reserving his 
grievances for a more opportune outlet; consoling 
himself meantime with a cat-like glance at Muriel, as 
she accepted the Master’s gallantly proffered arm and 
walked to the piano. Aside from this one blemish 
on his career in Weimar, Ilmstedt was a thoroughly 
good fellow, and his colleagues had many pleasant 
things to relate of him amidst other, surroundings. 

His adoration of Liszt dominated his entire being. 
Not content with the small personal notice accorded, 
he sought to ingratiate himself by cringing servility. 
Failing dismally in that, he had bethought himself, the 
previous season, of the earlier, and in many instances 
forgotten, piano transcriptions of Liszt’s. The leading 
music-publishing houses of Europe were searched, 
and the result provided Ilmstedt with a formidable 
list of compositions with which to wage war against 
the Master’s indifference. He had the satisfaction 
of hearing many an exclamation of surprise, and 


28 


^'MISS TRAUMEREI 


sometimes pleasure, from the gratified composer 
when he played one of these in the lesson. At such 
times his face grew radiant; but, did the Master ven- 
ture to say a word of approval or offer his cheek for a 
kiss, his joy knew no bounds. Could his bliss have 
induced unconsciousness until the awarding of fur- 
ther favors, all would have been well ; but, alas, it was 
too evident that the Master cherished a warmer re- 
gard for certain other pupils. The visible proof was 
anguish to him. Hence the puerile intrigues which 
spiced the serenity of social intercourse in the Liszt 
clique, though they were rarely of lasting harm to 
others than Ilmstedt himself. 

Muriel noticed the expression of his face as she 
took her place at the keyboard; and as she recalled 
the incident of the morning, related by Pauline, she 
mentally calculated the extent of the harm brewing 
for her in Ilmstedt’s prejudiced imagination. The 
thought was of short duration, for the Master, who oc- 
cupied the chair at her right side, interrupted her by 
asking her what she purposed playing. 

“The three nocturnes, ‘Dreams of Love,’ ” she re- 
sponded, hastily placing the music on the rack. 

“Ach, so!” he exclaimed, adjusting his eyeglasses 
to examine a set of his own compositions, and turn- 
ing the leaves slowly, as if to refresh memory with 
forgotten harmonies. Then, leaning back in his 
chair, he turned his face to Muriel, saying, with a 
smile,, which displaced his eyeglasses and sent them 
dangling over his shirt front, “Well?” 

Only those who had overcome in great part or 


*^M/SS TRAUMEREI 


29 


entirely the technical difficulties of the pianoforte 
were supposed to apply to Liszt for instruction. To 
have attempted a piece beyond one’s powers would 
have meant banishment from the class. Failure was 
due rather to ner\^ous fright than incompetency, for 
no pupil dared risk a performance without the most 
careful preparation.' Therefore Liszt concerned him- 
self with the artistic touches only. His remarks, 
though brief, were revelations to a pianist, and his 
illustrations at the keyboard of incalculable worth. 
The pupils stood about the piano, carefully noting 
every suggestion. 

Accordingly, when the keys responded to Muriel’s 
touch, there was an instantaneous hush in the room. 
She was not allowed to proceed far. The Master placed 
his hands on hers. “Not so,” he said, “but this way.” 
He repeated the fragment without changing his po- 
sition. Muriel began anew. “Good — good!” he mut- 
tered encouragingly. In like manner they worked 
through the three pieces, sometimes slowly, again 
pushing rapidly forward. 

Muriel was an individual player, having some or- 
iginal ideas regarding interpretation. The Master 
did not venture to repress them, unless radically 
wrong, though differing somewhat from his own 
conception of the compositions. He followed her 
with earnest attention, using the blue pencil freely 
in altering certain passages. Only once — it was in 
the first nocturne — did he take her place at the key- 
board. Two of the oldest pupils, conversing in low 
tones at the opposite end of the room, instantly rec- 


30 


<*3fISS TRAUMEREI 


ognized the magic touch, and noiselessly joined the 
group of listeners. The Master was in one of his 
rare moods. He had slept well and was, moreover, 
happy to be again the centre of his beloved circle. 
It was home and family to him, and absorbed the 
tender affections of his declining years. 

Liszt had the power of a necromancer, with the key- 
board under his fingers. He could sway his audi- 
ence with the emotion which inspired him. If it were 
his will to-day to witness an ethereal tenderness steal 
into the faces of those behind him, he succeeded. 
All thought of the fingers that produced such strains 
seemed to have fled their minds. 

The softly murmuring undulations of the accom- 
paniment became the tonal embodiment of man’s 
complex inner self; the divine sweetness and beauty 
of the beseeching, caressing melody, the true voice 
of that ideal love which dominates and purifies life. 
In that moment every nature, however small and 
tarnished, translated beyond the worldly atmosphere 
of actual being, drank the pure ether of the over-soul. 
Each passed an exalted moment with his nobler self; 
but only a moment, for a sudden cessation of sound 
cut short loftier flights. 

“There!” exclaimed the Master, rising abruptly, as 
if sufficiently convinced of his own unimpaired power 
to require no further test. 

Ten transfigured faces grew blank. It was a rude 
shock to be suddenly precipitated from such em- 
pyrean heights. A dull look of disappointment set- 
tled in every eye. No one spoke as Muriel reluc- 


^^MISS TRAUMEREr^ 


31 


tantly resumed her place. Presently an impetuous 
youth of vigorous speech whispered to his neighbor: 
“I am in despair at such ill luck ! I have heard him 
play an entire piece but twice in as many years!” But 
no one dared to request the Master to continue to the 
end, and the lesson went on. 

“Bravo, bravo! you have played well — very well!” 

Still under the influence of the emotions awakened 
by her performance, Muriel responded, with true artis- 
tic sensitiveness, in an almost inaudible voice, “Thank 
you, dear Master,” and quietly folded her music to- 
gether. 

A smooth-faced young fellow, standing on the 
outer edge of the circle, neared the piano. “Oh, ho, 
August!” ejaculated the Master, rising and folding 
him to his breast, “Why so late to-day?” The pupils 
fell aside to let them cross the room arm in arm. 
One of the younger girls grasped Liszt’s hand in 
passing and raised it to her lips. A shadow, so slight 
that few detected it, darkened his face for an instant 
as he turned to see who it was. “Ah, Mariechen,” he 
said, leaving with her the recollection of a kindly 
smile. Another step, and some one else had him by 
the hand. This time he held it closely to his side. 
Ilmstedt, his hair falling loosely over his forearm, 
was struggling to get his head on a level with their 
clasped hands. With a quick movement Liszt 
patted him on the shoulder, for he was in a good hu- 
mor and did not wish to appear entirely unresponsive. 
Ilmstedt, lifting his head, gave it a sideward twist 
and smacked his lips at space. The hand that had 


32 


‘ 'MISS TEA UMEREI 


lingered upon his shoulder was gone. Two other 
demonstrative pupils took warning at this and 
permitted their venerable host to promenade unmo- 
lested. Such scenes were frequent. None but the 
participants gave them heed. 


CHAPTER IV. 

“Amerika seems to have the floor to-day; suppose 
you play us something.” Liszt stood before the 
young stranger in the corner, regarding him closely 
from under his heavy, protruding brows. ”Did you 
bring anything?” 

The words sent a chill to the heart of the American. 
Every nerve was paralyzed by the shock. His spirit 
seemed to have left its body for the time being. He 
heard his own voice reply calmly, “Yes, Master,” and 
noted with grim amusement its hollow, far-away 
sound. Mechanically he unfastened his coat and drew 
a folded piece of music from the inner pocket. He 
had placed it there hoping to escape an invitation to 
play at the first lesson, if he came without notes. 

“What!” exclaimed Liszt, in amused surprise, “have 
you brought such trash that you must needs conceal 
it?” The youth felt as if he were playing a part in a 
comedy when he heard himself respond diplomati- 
cally, “Nothing from the Master could be called 
trash!” He held the title page up for perusal as 
he spoke. Leaning forward at the same moment the 
Master recognized his own “Faust Fantaisie.” Wild 
gusts of laughter caught him with dectrical rapidity 
and shook him until his countenance assumed an 
apoplectic hue. The hilarity became general ; Ilmstedt 
having the most uproarious attack, out of policy. 
This diversion brought the American to himself. Hot 

33 


34 ^^MISS TRAUMEREr^ 

and cold waves tortured his body from; head to foot. 
With the sensitiveness to ridicule common to mor- 
tals, he resented the situation ; but there being no time 
for soliloquy, he made a ghastly effort to smile in- 
stead. 

The composer was not displeased, it was evident, 
when he had recovered sufficiently to speak. “Well, 
that is trash! I played it myself, a quarter of a cen- 
tury ago, but now, every boarding school girl at- 
tempts it. It has not been heard in this room for many 

a day; but ” he pointed to the piano and elevated 

his shoulders slightly as he laughingly forsook the 
spot, “I am willing — play it!” 

For various reasons, Liszt declined hearing certain 
compositions in the lessons. An unpleasant associa- 
tion with a too frequent or a notably bad perform- 
ance of a piece, would often occasion its protracted 
exile. The pupils, therefore, were surprised at this 
concession to a stranger, and thought it an extraor- 
dinary mark of favor. Instinctively, Ilmstedt sta- 
tioned himself at his side to turn the leaves. The 
Master gave the signal for the music to begin; and, 
forthwith, joined a small group at the extreme end of 
the room. He usually made the initial performance 
by a novice a rigorous test of ability, which decided 
whether the aspirant shotild go or stay. To-day he 
turned his back to the instrument to relate an amus- 
ing incident, called to memory by the foregoing scene 
— apparently deaf to other sounds. It seemed for a 
time as if the newcomer were to be accepted solely on 
the strength of the fun he had furnished, when Liszt, 


*^MISS TRAUMEREV^ 35 

who, as usual, had not lost a note, made a wry face 
and uttered an exclamation of displeasure. 

“He is nervous and terribly frightened. Master,” 
said Muriel, hoping to get her countryman safely 
through. 

“Oh, not that,” he replied, with less asperity, “not 
that — he plays quite well — it is the piece. Trashy 
stuff — trashy stuff!” He approached the piano and 
motioned the youth to rise. “Well played,” he said, 
lightly touching his shoulder, “well played. Now 
listen.” Dropping into the chair, he burlesqued two 
pages of the piece and stopped. “That is too trivial,” 
he said, tapping the notes here and there with his blue 
pencil; “that also — and that!” 

“Ah!” he finally said, shutting the composition 
with derisive vigor, “no more of that! You played 
quite well,” he added, looking up reassuringly at 
the embarrassed American, “but bring something else 
next lesson.” 

“May I, then, play the Beethoven Sonata, Op. 78?” 

The Master did not hear the low-spoken inquiry 
as he turned to glance at the music which the pupils 
had deposited on the round table. Muriel answered 
for him in English: “I am sure he will hear that; 
but, if you will permit me — this is my third year here 
— I will suggest one of his own compositions.” Her 
voice fell to a whisper, and she gave the youth 
a kindly look which he understood. 

“How good of you!” he exclaimed, flushing with 
grateful enthusiasm and grasping her hand. “I am 
doubly indebted to you, for now I know who be- 


36 


^ ^MISS TRA UMEREI 


friended me when I entered the room. I was terribly 
embarrassed. 1 didn’t know just what was expected 
of me.” 

“Naturally. But you will feel differently when you 
learn the singular etiquette; of the house. Then he is 
easy to approach, and a delightful companion. Every 
one loves him; but the majority also fear him, be- 
cause they do not understand him.” 

“You think, then, he will let me stay?” 

“Of course! Did he not tell you to play next les- 
son?” 

“Yes— but ” 

“Never fear,” said Muriel, with smiling assurance; 
“you will not have to suffer another examination. 
You may congratulate yourself on having escaped so 
lightly. He will work with you next time.” 

“I have just brushed up his A major concerto,” 
the youth said, reflectively; “will he hear that?” 

“You couldn’t make a better choice! The sonata 
will do for the following lesson. Let me introduce 
you to Arthur,” — Muriel indicated a beardless young 
fellow near by, whose resemblance to Liszt was uni- 
versally remarked — “he made a tremendous success 
with the concerto on his last tour.” 

“Ah, yes ; I read of it,” murmured the youth, his 
constrained expression rapidly relaxing into one of 
genial surprise at this timely, disinterested assistance 
from an unknown and charming woman, a splendid 
artist as he had heard, possibly a famous one. 

“Perhaps he will play the second piano part for 
you.” 


‘ ^M/SS TRA UMEREl 


37 


“Pardon me — I do not yet know your name.” 

“Rivington,” he answered; “Walter Rivington.” 

Another hour passed pleasantly, the assembly prov- 
ing more of a reunion — being the first of the season 
— than a lesson. A little Hollander, a great favorite 
with all, played in fine style a Chopin sonata which 
Liszt had selected from the table. 

After repeated efforts to attract his notice to a cer- 
tain transcription, and, finally, being forced to tell 
the Master that he had obtained it under peculiarly 
trying circumstances, Ilmstedt secured the last place 
on the programme. He received but brief instruc- 
tion — one or two hints and a reminiscent remark. 
However, he was overjoyed to be even so short a 
time the object of attention, and rose from the 
piano with a proud flash of the eye at the scattered 
groups. 

“We have not had much of a lesson,” said the Mas- 
ter, beginning to show signs of weariness, “but it will 
do for to-day. Come again on Thursday. Adieu, 
dear Norway.” 

It was the same as at coming. A hand pressure, 
a courtly kiss on the forehead, an embrace — all pro- 
portionate to his regard for the pupil — and a hearty 
word for each. 

“Aufwiedersehen, Amerika.” The native country 
or city of a pupil sufficed for Liszt, when; he forgot 
the family name. However, as they came to him from 
every civilized portion of the globe — sometimes with 
unpronounceable patronymics — such an omission was 
quite pardonable. “Something else on Thursday.” 


38 <^MISS TRAUMEREr* 

“Will you hear the A major concerto, Master?” in- 
quired Rivington, having by this time recovered 
something of his usual ease of manner. 

“With pleasure.” 

“Thank you, Master.” 

“So,” he repeated, extending his hand a second 
time, “the concerto on Thursday. Aufwiedersehen, 
Amerika!” 

This evidence of goodwill might have rendered 
so emotional a creature as Rivington utterly speech- 
less but for his gradual revolution of feeling since 
entering the salon. He made a hasty exit, seeming 
to tread thin air in his headstrong desire to reach an 
indefinite some one to whom he could open his heart. 
Outside the door he faltered. Naturally, his first 
thought had been of Muriel, and she was within. For 
a musical artist, he was as modest and unselfish as 
it was possible to be, attributing his good fortune 
entirely to her aid. To whom else, then, could he, 
alone and a stranger in Weimar, look for sympathy ? 
Impulsively, he decided to wait until she came from 
the salon. Being a well-bred youth, he fancied she 
looked faintly surprised to see him standing, hat in 
hand, before her; and then, with exaggerated feeling, 
conscious of the audacity of his act after such brief 
acquaintance, he stammered: 

“I beg your pardon for waiting here ; but I — I ” 

Seeing his confusion, and surmising the cause, 
Muriel said, in a manner to put him instantly at ease: 
“Why so? We are all like one family — a very numer- 
ous one later in the season — and it pleases the Mas- 


«M/SS TRAUMEREV^ 39 

ter.” They stopped in the ante-chamber for her hat 
and sunshade, but when they joined the other pupils 
on the stairway, Rivington needed nothing to arouse 
his eloquence. His cheeks were glowing, his eyes 
sparkling, when Pauline, who stood in the kitchen 
door watching them, interrupted his recital with this 
inopportune announcement: “The young Count has 
been waiting out in front this half hour, Missey!” 

“Ah!” exclaimed Murial suavely. Rivington could 
not tell whether she was glad or not. She stopped to 
bid the housekeeper a hurried farewell; and then, he 
had barely time to say a final word of thanks, before 
they reached the outer door. “It gave me pleasure,” 
she said, extending her hand to him as they halted 
on the stoop. “I cannot witness in others such suffer- 
ing as I experienced at my first lesson in that room, 
if I can ease it in any way.”. 

“You are never nervous now when you play?” 

“Always! We fear each other; not the Master. 
But then,” she said, looking naively down upon him, 
a step lower, “each must bear his turn.” 

“I am detaining you,” he exclaimed, noticing her 
smile a recognition over his shoulder. “Good-by.” 

“Aufwiedersehen !” Muriel gave him a quick hand 
pressure and descended the short flight before him. 
Facing about, he saw a tall and handsome blonde- 
moustached lieutenant of infantry, his hand raised in 
military salute, striding, with ringing clank of sword, 
rapidly towards her. He was superbly uniformed in 
black, with scarlet coat facings, and burnished but- 
tons, and a cap of the two colors. A phrenologist 


40 


*^MISS TRAUMEREr'^ 


would have called his head the ideal type. Certainly 
there was the reverse of a warlike gleam in his clear 
blue eyes as they rested on Muriel’s face. 

Seeing the young couple move off towards the 
park, Rivington held the Allee gate slightly ajar, to 
watch their stately tread, for Muriel walked noticeably 
well, even in comparison with the military gait of her 
companion. 

He relaxed his hand; the lock sprang with a click. 
A feeling of unutterable loneliness came over him. 
With the image of the bepadded, richly apparelled 
nobleman in his eye, his gaze fell involuntarily upon 
his own gaunt undeveloped figure, in sober civilian’s 
dress. Hastily averting his head, he saw the reflec- 
tion of his dark, boyish locks in a closed side window 
of the house. With a flash of guilty consciousness, 
he sharply scanned the Windows on the opposite side 
of the street. No one was in sight, and he turned rue- 
fully toward the city. 


CHAPTER V. 

Facing one of the narrow crooked streets of the 
old city, whose notoriously bad pavement is here the 
roughest, an ancient, gloomy house towers conspicu- 
ously above the neighboring gables and tile roofs. 
The facade, with its round arched doorway at the 
left-hand corner, its first three rows of windows and 
the intervening patches of fruit and flowers in stucco, 
is of mediaeval origin, the high mansard roof having 
been added within this century. Many generations 
ago it was one of the grand residences of the little 
ducal capital. Even yet it retains an air of genteel 
respectability in this district of cheap shops and tav- 
erns. At one side of the great entrance, beneath the 
depending bell-wire which induces such a jangling 
within, is a low stone column. 

Gretchen, the pretty, black-eyed maid-of-all-work 
to Frau von Berwitz, the mistress of the mansion, 
sits here on summer evenings after the tea things 
are put by, to exchange the news of the day with the 
neighborhood gossips, or — what is far dearer to her 
heart — to listen to the wooing of her blue-bloused 
lover Hans. With the stroke of ten from the clock 
in the castle tower she rises and says good-night — in 
the shadow of the arch, if to Hans, and with a par- 
donably greater show of feeling than to Frau 
Schwartz. The right wing of the heavy door opens 

and shuts to the discordant music of a tell-tale bell; 

41 


42 


‘ ^MISS TRA UMEREI 


the key turns noisily in the rusty lock, and is not 
touched again until Gretchen appears bright and early 
next morning, with a huge wooden contrivance 
strapped to her back, to fetch drinking water from the 
neighboring public fountain. She hastens her foot- 
steps; for before she serves the simple breakfast of 
coffee and rolls, many flowers must be sprinkled from 
the tall old-fashioned pump, standing, like a one- 
armed giant, with a cannon ball in his hand, at a 
corner of the open, paved inner court. 

With the exception of the second story back, Frau 
von Berwitz occupies the entire four sides of the 
large parallelogram about which her ancestral home 
is built. The end and side wings, topped by high 
steep roofs with low overhanging eaves, have but 
two floors, the first being divided into storage and 
work-rooms. The doors and windows mark the only 
breaks in the rich growth of purple clematis which 
climbs to the open gallery on the front and left, and 
to the long row of tiny-paned windows on the right, 
humorously dubbed by Muriel the “Cloister.” The 
rear end of the court is architecturally plain, save a 
low. round tower, with a spiral stairway, in the corner 
at the end of the gallery. At the end of this, an open 
passage, closed by a great iron door at night, leads 
under the “Cloister” to the private garden, a rectan- 
gular area at the side of the mansion and in the rear 
of a broad adjoining building. To the left, and on a 
line with this entrance, is the “Garden Salon,” the 
cosy corner room of the ancient pile, with double 
glass doors, accessible from the court also, and be- 


^^MISS TRAUMEREI 


43 


yond which a high stone wall encloses one side of the 
garden. On the side opposite the wall a row of bushy 
trees overhangs an old paling fence and obscures the 
view from neighboring private grounds. Along a 
box-bordered central walk roses of every hue bloom 
in luxuriant profusion; they shadow, on the one 
hand, n^at little kitchen-garden beds, and, on the 
Other, solid patches of pansies, pinks, marigold and 
mignonette. A gravelled terrace, lower by three steps 
and terminating a dozen feet above the back street, 
is strewn with tables, chairs, and settles in the pro- 
tecting shade of some small trees at one side of a 
stone summer house occupying two-thirds of this 
level. By the iron railing surmounting the street 
wall, a dark flight of worn stone steps descends to the 
cellar of the building, which has an exit on the 
street. 

The summer-house is supposed to be a portion of 
the ancient city wall, and more than seven hundred 
years old. Between two large deep-set windows, a 
broad arched entrance with double iron doors — its 
massive, oddly-shaped key a delight to antiquarians 
— faces the central walk. Without, rows of lemon, 
orange and fig trees, and clambering grape-vines par- 
tially conceal the time-stained walls. Within, the 
large square room is inviting and homelike. Pretty, 
light stuff curtains are held back from the entrance 
and windows; rugs cover the brick floor; comfort- 
able wicker chairs surround a large, polished centre 
table; a superannuated grand piano, a capacious 
sofa, ottomans, and curious tables stand in relief 


44 


^‘MISS TRAUMEREr' 


against the tinted walls; and high up, terra-cotta 
brackets support busts of Carl August, Marie Pa- 
lowna, and the present Grand Duke and Duchess Carl 
Alexander of Saxe-Weimar. Antiques of interest 
adorn the mantel and niches in the wall. Opposite 
the garden door a square opening in the inner wall 
communicates with a narrow corridor which runs 
across the street front of the house and is lighted by 
small, old-fashioned windows. An easy couch is the 
only practical piece of furniture, the place being 
stored with the childish toys of other days. 

It had been a sort of play-room since time un- 
known. There was a period when it saddened the 
mistress of the mansion to enter here. Years have 
passed since then. Now she selects it for a quiet after- 
dinner nap, before joining the few intimate friends 
who usually drop in about four o’clock for a cup of 
coffee in the large, cool room, with its inviting out- 
look on the garden. In all Weimar no more secluded, 
restful spot can be found. This deep-cut, deserted 
back street rarely resounds to the rumble of wheels. 
An occasional footfall on the cobble stones seems to 
rebound and lodge somewhere under the eaves and 
on the high stone walls. At such times a servant in 
a lordly modern residence which fronts the cross 
street, peers down curiously from her second-floor 
kitchen opposite the old garden. This constant sur- 
veillance was annoying to the frequenters of the ter- 
race until Frau von Berwitz set up a movable canvas 
screen. In acknowledgment, the servants continued 
their observations less offensively, though every whit 


^^MISS TRAUMEREl 


45 


as industriously as heretofore, by stealthy peeps irom 
behind the neat muslin curtains. 

Lounging- near the open window, long after the mid- 
day dinner, the cook was apparently oblivious to the 
doings of her neighbors. She was careful not to 
turn her head when a trim little woman, whose face 
was shadowed by a plain brown chip hat, tripped 
daintily along in the shadow of the wall ; but, she said 
aloud ‘'Only Fraulein Panzer!” Stopping at the 
summer-house door, Fraulien Panzer produced a key 
from a black satin reticule on her arm and let herself 
in. A moment later she came scrambling out on the 
terrace, the soft little white curls quivering about her 
face as she looked furtively over her shoulder down 
the dark stairway. The cook, drawing back, laughed 
immoderately and beckoned to the butler. 

Finding herself safe out of the dungeon, Fraulein 
Panzer proceeded serenely around the corner of the 
stone house, without having spied the cackling pair 
over the way. The little lady’s clear blue eyes opened 
in astonishment when she saw the curtains drawn at 
the portal. “Nah!” she exclaimed under her breath, 
standing still with one foot on the step, and look- 
ing over her shoulder at the mansion. 

It was a sleepy afternoon; a tardy sun had just 
broken the rain-clouds, and nature had scarcely be- 
gun to awake from her two days’ lethargy. The steep 
gable was covered by green vines to the comb of the 
roof. Heavy shrubbery concealed the entrance to 
the garden salon; but at the open windows of Mu- 
riel’s apartment, soft white curtains, in their pictur- 


46 


^^MISS TRAUMEREI'^ 


esque setting of pink and white rose clusters, were 
gently stirred by the breeze. The place was silent, 
and apparently deserted: not a sound from the street 
penetrated the stillness. 

Some trees by the side wall threw long shadows 
before the summer house where Fraulein Panzer ir- 
resolutely stood. A deep-drawn sigh from within 
made her suddenly chirp like a startled bird and face 
about. Lightly springing up the step to the thresh- 
old, she thrust aside the hangings and began to laugh 
gaily, thereby rousing a matron in sober black who 
had been sleeping soundly in an easy-chair by the 
centre table. Slowly lifting her face, the matron re- 
garded her visitor through half-opened lids, and said 
drowsily, ”Ah, Clara, I thought it was you.” 

Fraulein Panzer continued to laugh without ex- 
plaining the reason, as she looped the curtains back 
and let a flood of light into the room. 

In her circle; of intimates Fraulein Panzer was 
known as the “Canary Bird.” Her voice was mellow 
and flute-like; and her quick sideward twist of the 
head, her light tripping step, her merry sprightly 
ways, made the name seem very appropriate. 

These two women, the closest of friends since 
childhood, and differing only three months in age, 
were direct opposites physically and mentally. Frau 
von Berwitz, the elder, had an erect, full figure, just 
escaping corpulency, brown eyes, snow-white hair, 
drawn in rippling wavelets gently back from a 
broad, high forehead, and an agreeable contralto 
voice. In her youth she had been a famous beauty. 


^^MISS TRAUMEREI 


47 


and, until the end of her brief married life, a reigning 
belle at the Grand Ducal Court, where her husband 
filled high office. They had spent money so freely 
that his death left her in possession of only a very 
limited income in addition to the home which she 
had inherited. Thenceforward, she confined herself 
to the education of an only child, a girl of five, revis- 
iting the scene of her former triumphs twice, at most, 
during a winter. With Teutonic foresight, she took 
into her family, to learn German, one or two young 
foreigners who could afford to pay liberally for so 
rare a privilege. Thus she was enabled to provide the 
requisite dower, without depleting her own little 
hoard, when her daughter, at twenty years of age, be- 
came the wife of an army officer stationed at Berlin. 
Through acquaintance with the latter, Muriel found 
a home at the old mansion on first coming to 
Weimar. 

Frau von Berwitz was still comely to behold. Like 
her friend, her step was elastic, her eye undimmed, 
and her smooth firm skin tinged with the hue of 
health. A passing glimpse of these two, just enter- 
ing on the final decade of life, inspired pity for the 
unhappy Ponce de Leon in his fruitless quest for the 
fountain of youth. They certainly had learned the 
secret of its source. Frau von Berwitz looked like 
a middle-aged Juno as she slowly rose from her chair 
and gazed from her stately height on the merry little 
woman flitting to and fro in the doorway. As she no- 
ticed the long shadows in the garden, her drowsiness 
vanished in a twinkling. “Can it be so late?” she e^- 


48 


‘ ^MISS TRA UMEREI 


claimed, in surprise. “It seems but a moment since 
Muriel went out. 

Having inquired the latter’s whereabouts, Fraulein 
Panzer tossed her hat upon the piano, and ensconc- 
ing herself in an easy-chair opposite her hostess, be- 
gan work on a half-knit brown stocking. She was of 
a type seldom met, who entertain others merely by 
their presence. One followed her movements as one 
follows those of a bird, with lively, sympathetic in- 
terest, for their vivacious spontaneity was more elo- 
quent than words. She conversed well. She knew 
also when to keep quiet, though that in no wise ac- 
counted for her present silence. Her laughing eyes 
were directed to the long, slender needles swiftly al- 
ternating in the woolen loop ; and an occasional twitch 
at the supply-thread, which caused the ball to flounce 
madly in the reticule on her arm, seemed to accen- 
tuate her unvoiced amusement. 

“The last I remember, Muriel called ‘good-by,’” 
Frau von Berwitz was saying, as she settled her- 
self in her chair and took up some fine needlework. 
“Gretchen must have found me nodding when she 
came to remove the coffee service, and have drawn 
the curtains to protect my eyes from the light. Why 
do you laugh?” she inquired, glancing askance from 
her embroidery, which she held very near her 
face. 

“To find it you, and not the ghost.” 

“What ghost?” queried the dowager, glancing 
amusedly down at her own ample proportions. 
“Wherein lies the resemblance?” 


^^MISS TRAUMEREr' 


•49 


“Have you forgotten,” said the otlier, “the tale old 
Johann told about this house to frighten us children 
from the garden when' we annoyed him?” And to- 
gether they laughingly recalled the dialect used by 
the old gardener ini recounting the legend of a for- 
mer occupant of the citadel, a mediaeval knight, 
whose gnadige Frau, in retaliation for his cruelty dur- 
ing her lifetime, was wont to moan at midnight be- 
hind the portiere of his sleeping-room. Finally, one 
morning, he was discovered sitting upright in bed, 
his eyes bulging out of his head in a cold and glassy 
stare — dead ! 

“Served him right,” said Frau von Berwitz, drying 
the tears of merriment which trickled down her 
cheeks. “It’s a duty every maltreated wife owes her 
sex. So you thought me the returned spirit of that 
unhappy woman! No; had I departed before my 
dear, lamented Heinrich, it would have been unneces- 
sary. Never did better husband live!” 

“True,” murmured Fraulein Panzer, resuming her 
knitting, with the mental addendum : “An early death 
would save many an otherwise lost reputation.” 

“No wonder I was restless in my sleep,” continued 
Frau von Berwitz more soberly, also taking up her 
work; “we didn’t have half enough last night. Muriel 
and I sat chatting, until — well, no matter the hour. It 
was wrong of me, too, for the dear child seems far 
from well.” 

Forthwith the Canary Bird dropped a favorite and 
sweetly ringing note of interrogation: “Nah! What 
is it?” 


50 . 


<^MISS TRAUMEREI 


“Overwork, of course. Constitutionally she is 
strong enough.’^ 

“Overwork! Humph!” 

“But, you know, Clara, her ” 

“Oh, yes, I know. She is quite right. Every girl 
should, as she preaches, be taught some one thing 
well. But she is a great artist already. It seems to 
me that, with her princely income, she might take 
life a trifle less seriously.” 

“Precisely; but a woman of five-and-twenty is her 
own mistress; and if she will not, why ” an ex- 

pressive uplifting of the shoulders completed the sen- 
tence. “I remonstrated about the lessons for this 
week, but ” 

“I wonder if Fritz von Hohenfels could induce a 
change of tactics?” Fraulein Panzer covertly studied 
the effect of her words as her companion raised her 
head to respond. 

“I am sure not! What an unconscionable time he 
has been about it, anyway!” 

“You were not quite so positive when we last dis- 
cussed it, my dear.” In the delicate flush that swept 
over her face the speaker betrayed a personal inter- 
est in the subject which her words strove to conceal. 
However, she bent lower over her work, and the 
other failed to see her confusion. 

“Nor was I, until last night.” 

“How so?” 

“It came about in this way,” began Frau von Ber- 
witz, in that subdued, impressive tone which makes 
the hearer feel that, but for this opportune outlet, the 


‘ ^MISS TRA UMEREI 


51 


pent-up news would explode the narrator; and Frau- 
lein Panzer, duly convinced of it, rested on her knit- 
ting-needles — to borrow a nautical form of expres- 
sion — in order to lose none of it. 

“Muriel was laughing about a penniless nobleman 
in Berlin, who last week inquired of her banker 
the size of her letter of credit, and immediately threw 
himself at her feet with the wildest protestations of 
adoration. She is reticent concerning herself, as you 
know; so, seeing my chance, I cautiously referred to 
Count von Hohenfels as a possible suitor for her 
hand. What do you suppose she said?” Fraulein 
Panzer could scarcely repress her impatience, in her 
eager excitement to hear faster than could be told, 
when Frau von Berwitz hesitated before giving the 
reply: “Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof!” 

“Oh!” chirped the little Canary Bird sharply, star-, 
tied and wounded by this unlooked-for thrust at her 
beloved godson ; she straightened portentously in her 
chair, only to relax her features again and utter a 
mollified “Ah!” at Frau von Berwitz’s concluding 
sentence. 

“ ‘But I hope he won’t spoil our friendship by any 
such nonsense,’ she went on, not alluding to him 
after, and declaring it her purpose never to marry.” 

Fraulein Panzer’s brows expressed incredulity; her 
eyes, hope. 

Observing this, Frau voni Berwitz hastened to ex- 
plain. “Ah, but she meant it! Listen! It was just 
five years ago yesterday that she was to have mar- 
ried her brother’s law partner, a young man ten years 


52 


<*MISS TRAUMEREV 


her senior. A fortnight before, they went with a party 
of friends for an afternoon’s yachting. The vessel 
capsized. Of twelve souls aboard, eight were lost. 
He was one. She was picked up as dead by a rescu- 
ing boat. Fearful of the shock to her mind, her 
friends hurried her off to Europe for a change. In 
course of time she found consolation in music; so 
they left her here, and she has never returned home. 
There is, I believe, a compact that some one of them 
shall visit her annually during her absence. Both 
parents are dead ; the brother and sisters are married, 
and have families of their own. They all offer her a 
home, and beg her to come; but — ^you know how it 
is.” 

“That I do! She is wise!” ejaculated the spinster, 
with fervency inspired by a momentary vision of a 
cosy home near by, where she constituted the family. 
“And?” 

“In short, her heart is buried; she will never marry.” 

With a sympathetic moistening of the eye, Fraulein 
Panzer requested the details of the tragedy which had 
darkened the recent years of Muriel’s life, accompany- 
ing the recital with a broken, low-voiced plaint like 
the distant song of a nightingale. “Oh, pshaw!” she 
interjected, suddenly recovering her buoyant spirits 
and resonant upper notes with the air of having parted 
company with a leaden ballast; “she will get over it, 
my dear. Never fear! I have studied her closely; 
and did I not recognize the growing want which 
prompts it, I should be inclined to laugh at her vague 
notions about spending her time and money for the 


^^MISS TRAUMEREV* 


53 


good of her country-people; or — for aught I know — 
the entire human race, when she shall have com- 
pleted her musical studies here.” 

“At any rate, Clara, she is terribly in earnest.” 

“True; but she is drifting like a ship without an 
anchor, and must find a mooring sooner or later. Her 
love has had a backset, and at her age, with her crav- 
ing for affection, it will revive some day, in over- 
whelming intensity. Then the entire human race will 
have to abdicate for one man.” 

“Candidates are persistent enough already.” 

“Better say fortune-hunters! Some sincere man 
will win her heart, though, before she knows it; and 
then she will frankly admit her present delusions.” 

“Maybe!” remarked Frau von Berwitz skeptically, 
“but only a more powerful will than her own could 
accomplish that.” 

“Surely Fritz von Hohenfels has given us proof of 


“Ah, well,” Fraulein Panzer began anew at an in- 
dication of a demurrer from the hostess, “where is there 
another like him? He bears one of the proudest 
names in the Empire, has a fine property, no vices, a 
kindly disposition, is devoted to music; he is blessed 
with rare good looks, and is, moreover, madly in love 
with ” 

“Sh! There is some one coming,” came the warn- 
ing from Frau von Berwitz, and none too soon, in- 
deed, for a moment later Muriel Holme and Count 
von Hohenfels appeared before them. 


CHAPTER VI. 

Count Friedrich von Hohenfels was consecrated — 
body to the army, and soul to music. The former 
very much against his own will, and the latter ex- 
pressly against that of a stern parent. In his early 
youth he had been bold enough to petition his un- 
loving and unloved paternal relative’s consent to an 
artistic career. To crush this plebeian desire, young 
Fritz was promptly hurried into a military training 
school and forced to swear eternal allegiance to an 
army life on penalty of his birthright. But defeat, 
instead of smothering the flame of his ruling passion, 
only fanned it to a brighter inward glow. Its outward 
gleam, however, was sternly repressed as incompati- 
ble with the bold, combative spirit of a soldier. With 
a morose purpose to fulfill to the last degree the let- 
ter of his agreement, he even avoided prominence in 
the simple musical relaxations of his own circle. He 
maintained a reputation for good comradeship only 
by spending an evening or two each week with his 
convivial military brethren, listening to the regimental 
band at Werther’s garden or at the Armbrust. None 
of them knew of the rapt hours he spent at his piano in 
his own secluded apartments in an unfrequented street, 
voicing in music the changeful, turbulent emotions of 
his intense nature. The longing for sympathetic, hu- 
man response became, at times, almost unbearable. 

Living in this way, within himself, without inti- 
54 


^‘MISS TRAUMEREI 


55 


mates, he met Muriel Holme at cof¥ee at Fraulein 
Panzer’s one afternoon, early in the first summer 
of her stay in Weimar. On that memorable 
occasion, while he listened wearily to platitudes, the 
hostess carelessly informed him that Miss Holme 
was one of that brilliant circle which he longed to 
cultivate and dared not — the Lisztianer! Hohenfels 
felt his heart give one sudden thump, and instantly 
the young gentlewoman before him appeared as if 
invested with Pandora’s charms. She, on the con- 
trary, placidly and almost immediately, took her 
leave, as if it were the most natural thing in the world 
to be a Lisztianer. 

After a decent interval of two days he paid Frau 
von Berwitz, a friend of his mother’s since childhood, 
a long-delayed visit. The summer grew and waned 
like a dream, to him at least; and when Muriel 
Hclme had departed for Berlin, he awoke to the 
knowledge that her presence was necessary to his 
happiness. Never before had a woman’s face come 
between him and his piano. Hitherto he had 
thought of marriage in a vague, disinterested sort 
of way, as something ultimate and not relevant to 
the present. As day followed day, and the old 
routine of life forced itself upon him, the sense of 
his loss fell like a pall over his soul. He missed 
the musical afternoons and evenings in Muriel’s prac- 
tice room in the old rose-garden; and, above all, he 
felt the absence of her refined com.panionship. 

He had said at parting, “I shall miss you terribly !” 
without realizing the full import of his words. 


56 


^^MISS TRAUMEREI 


His hatred of the parade-ground had been tem- 
porarily subdued by a happy summer, but now it 
came back with redoubled force. He was convinced 
that his hitherto unendurable lot would be endur- 
able with her near. This fact he communicated to 
his father. As was to be expected, the latter thought 
otherwise, and threatened to disinherit him should 
he marry an American. His cousin, the heiress to 
a rich estate joining his own lands, the last of an 
ancient and noble line, was just coming of age. Over- 
look such an alliance? Never! Fritz was obdurate. 
His father thereupon promptly curtailed his allow- 
ance, w'hich had never been generous — the pay of 
a lieutenant in the German army is a mere pittance — 
to a sum barely sufficient to keep him clear of debt, 
until he should accede to the demand. Under this 
iron rule he was powerless to swerve from the pre- 
scribed groove. 

Another summer, and with it to Weimar came 
Muriel Holme. Again he knew happiness; living 
in the present, blind to the future; never speaking 
to her of love, only hoping, fearing, praying, he 
shrank from wording his thoughts. 

Reward came unexpectedly. Three weeks pre- 
vious to the opening of this story the tyrannical 
father died suddenly of apoplexy. Fritz passed a 
fortnight at Hohenfels administering the estate. The 
terms of the will exacted of him but one distasteful 
condition — a military life. At last he was free to 
woo the wife of his choice, but not in Berlin, for duty 
called him imperatively to Weimar. Muriel had a 


^ ^AfTSS TRAUMEREI ” 


57 


short note from him announcing- his bereavement ; in 
his impatience of delay he would have written then 
and there of marriage, had his mother not dissuaded 
him. “She would rather hear it from your own lips, 
if she loves you,” she had said ; and, after deliberation, 
he thought so too. The next day Fraulein Panzer 
received a long letter from the Countess, the con- 
tents of which she kept secret. Her reply was a 
telegram of three words, “She comes to-night,” sent 
to Castle Hohenfels the day of Muriel’s return to 
Weimar. 

When the Count met Muriel after the lesson at 
Liszt’s, it was with difficulty that he curbed a strong 
impulse to hold her to his breast and whisper a ten- 
der “at last!” 

“How did you learn of my arrival?” she asked as 
they neared the rustic gate. 

“Bernsdorf told me on the parade-ground — had 
seen you passing the guard-house. The minutes 
seemed hours until I was free to come to ” 

Muriel’s music slipped from her grasp, and the 
Count was compelled to lift it. “I will carry it,” he 
said, as she extended her hand. 

“Not in that uniform,” she replied, with appre- 
ciation of German military customs, and carrying 
her point. He stopped once more to open the gate, 
and as they passed into the park, a boy of twelve, go- 
ing in the same direction, overtook them. “Ah, 
Hermann,” said Muriel, pressing his hand cordially, 
“is it possible to grow so tall in one year!” She prat- 
tled with him in this strain through the park, across 


^^MISS TRAUMEREI 


58 

the town to the very door of the old garden house. 
Hohenfels’ face was scarlet with ill-concealed vexa- 
tion as they bade the child adieu and ascended to 
the terrace. Then he observed the prying eyes across 
the way, and, turning the comer of the summer-house, 
heard voices within. Another moment, and they 
stood before Frau von Berwitz and Fraulein Panzer. 
The latter saw his discomfiture at a glance, and gave, 
by her infectious laughter, such a happy tone to the 
hum of general greetings that the cloud faded from 
his face. Muriel declined to be seated, saying she 
wished the Count to try her new piano, one of Amer- 
ican make, which had been set up in her music-room 
— the garden salon — that morning, and she asked the 
others to join them there. It was her ruse to avoid 
a conversation, for she was more fatigued from 
the excitement of the afternoon than she would have 
admitted, in face of Frau von Berwitz’s opposition 
to her playing in the lesson. Moreover, she did not 
purpose giving him an opportunity of voicing the 
sentiment which his eyes had expressed as they left 
the Royal Gardens. 

“Presently, my dear, presently!” said FrMein Pan- 
zer in response to Murieks bidding, which the Count 
had heard with annoyance; but his face brightened as 
she subjoined, “we old women have something of 
importance to settle before we can come. Ah, yes, 
Fritz, I came near forgetting. Can you come to me 
about eleven to-morrow morning?” 

“Yes,” replied the Count, after a moment’s reflec- 
tion, “with pleasure/’ 


<^MISS TRAUMEREI 


59 


Frau von Berwitz at once extended to both guests 
an invitation for tea, to celebrate Muriehs return. 
“Now run along, children, to your music.” Frau- 
lein Panzer recklessly flourished her knitting in the 
direction of the garden salon, and promptly re- 
sumed work. 

Feeling that he had a powerful ally in his jolly 
little godmother, the Count sauntered up the gar- 
den walk at Muriel’s side to a long rose arch, where 
a short path led at right angles to the broad open 
doorway of the music-room. It was a large 
square apartment, with a painted floor; gayly col- 
ored rugs dotting it here and there, like so many 
islets. There was a suggestion of the eighteenth 
century about the room; a suggestion due to the an- 
tique furniture in cherry and gilt, the wall decora- 
tions and two mirrors and some early Italian land- 
scapes in quaint frames. The light was admitted 
through double glass doors in cool weather; the sin- 
gle side window, on a back alley, being curtained with 
brightly-flowered cretonne, like that which formed 
the portiere. A new concert grand piano, enveloped, 
all but the legs, in a drab waterproof, occupied the 
centre of the room. “I detest those things,” said 
Muriel, snatching the covering from the instrument 
with one impatient sweep, rolling it into a ball and 
tossing it upon a closet shelf. 

“I never knew a pianist that did not,” observed 
Hohenfels softly, as he raised the lid. 

“Gretchen is more practical than aesthetic in her 
taste,” she continued, unmindful of his words. 


6o 


‘^MISS TRAUMEREI 


“Superb!” exclaimed the Count ecstatically, run- 
ning his fingers lightly over the keys, then dropping 
into a simple, sustained melody, and ending the short 
extemporization with a tumultuous crescendo of pow- 
erful chords. 

“Magnificent!” 

“I like it,” said Muriel, who had hung her hat on a 
peg in the closet, and was drawing an easy chair be- 
fore the door, where she could look out on the wan- 
ton display of roses and inhale their exquisite perfume. 
“To my mind it surpasses any European piano.” 

The Count had risen and was coming towards her. 

“Play me something,” she said hastily, sinking 
into her chair ; “it rests me when I am tired.” 

He stopped, hesitated an instant, but there was no 
disregarding the tone and look, and he reluctantly re- 
turned to the instrument. He thought she had fallen 
asleep, for her head leaned back and her eyelids were 
closed. He saw that every vestige of color had left 
her face, as unobserved he watched her delicate pro- 
file lined against the light, while his fingers wandered 
gently over the keys. 

“Don’t stop,” she said, opening her eyes when the 
final notes died tenderly away under his touch; “nor 
feel obliged to play so gently on my account. Suit 
your own fancy, be it lively or subdued.” 

“H’m,” the little Canary Bird was saying to herself, 
with some vexation, out in the summer-house, when 
Frau von Berv/itz left her a few minutes to give an 
order about tea, “if Fritz wins here it will be through 
the medium of that piano. The boy must be crazy !” 


^<MISS TRAUMEREF' 6i 

Commenting thus, she gave the yarn an angry jerk, 
violently agitating the ball in the reticule, and, with 
compressed lips, did a deal of thinking before her 
hostess reappeared. 

“Come, Clara,” said Frau von Berwitz, starting to 
close one of the heavy iron doors; “they are expect- 
ing us.” 

“Maybe; but they don’t want us.” 

“Think so?” 

Fraulein Panzer burst into one of her inimitably 
musical laughs for reply. Frau von Berwitz, willing 
to be convinced, swung the massive door back again 
and took up her embroidery. 

Gretchen found the two sitting here when she came 
a half-hour later to announce tea. She lingered a 
moment to close and lock the double doors, while 
the ladies went to summon the young people from 
the garden salon. The Count was still at the piano, 
and Muriel resting with closed eyes in her former po- 
sition. After a second futile attempt to approach 
her he had been forced to yield to her wishes out of 
consideration for her obvious need of repose. Thus 
withheld, he sought by his art to express the senti- 
ments which he might not utter in word; but the 
means were sadly inadequate, and Fritz had as yet 
received no response from the dear, pale face, which 
it had been his joy to scan steadfastly during the past 
hour. 

Muriel looked up as the two ladies approached the 
rose bower. “Aren’t you coming?” she inquired in 
surprise. 


62 


‘ '3/lSS TEA UMEREI 


“We heard perfectly in the summer-house,” said 
Frau von Berwitz. Muriel instinctively felt the an- 
swer to be a subterfuge, the cause of which she easily 
divined. 

Upon leaving the room Muriel and the Count 
sought the stone court through a small brick entry, 
overtaking the two elderly ladies in the further cor- 
ner by the great pump. Entering a dark corridor 
through an open arch three steps higher, they came 
to a triple-jointed stairway, on the second landing of 
which a glass door communicated with the Cloister; 
on the third landing two more doors gave access to 
living apartments of the household, and to the open 
gallery. Near one of the doors a porcelain handle, 
attached to a depending bell wire, bore “Von Berwitz” 
in black letters. 

The faithful Gretchen unlocked the door with an 
oddly-shaped little key, which was strung like a 
locket on her neck, and admitted the quartette to a 
large, square vestibule, containing a long pier glass, 
several pieces of antique rosewood furniture, and a 
bewildering array of blue and drab Rhine pottery 
in various ornamental designs. The door to the 
drawing-room, the centre of the three family rooms 
across the front of the house, stood open, revealing 
a polished floor strewn with rugs ; and, in marked con- 
trast to the general appearance of the vestibule and 
garden apartments, modern appointments were vis- 
ible everywhere. 

It was a homelike suite, with the library on the left 
and the dining-room on the right, both visible beyond 


‘ ^MISS TRAUMEREI ” 


63 


the graceful folds of heavy portieres. Indeed, it 
could not have been otherwise than homelike under 
the artistic and practiced eye of Frau von Berwitz. 
Her large round tea-table, its spotless linen con- 
trasting with a broad, low centre decoration of deep 
red roses, fairly glistened with its array of hand- 
some china, cut glass and old family silver. As they 
all listened with bowed heads to a simple grace from 
the hostess, Hohenfels was hoping with the fervor of 
a hungry heart that Muriel might soon preside at 
his table — it should be just such an one — and think- 
ing how fondly he would look into her eyes, lean 
forward and — the “Amen” came none too soon, for 
he could scarce restrain an impulse to slip his hand 
under the table and give hers a stealthy pressure. 

At the sound of voices, a yellow canary, hanging in 
his gilt cage between the soft white curtains of the 
single window and just above a broad casement of 
scarlet geraniums, began to chirp pleadingly. He 
stood at the limit of his perch, his little head turning 
from right to left, gazing wistfully from his bead-like 
eyes on the silent company. 

“Sweet — sweet?” answered Fraulein Panzer, in a 
voice as dulcet as his own, and so close upon the 
low-spoken “Amen” that everybody smiled. The lit- 
tle fellow pufled out his downy throat and broke into 
an overjoyous warble at this greeting, for it was the 
season of long twilights, and the quieting influence 
of slowly coming night had not yet subdued his 
spirit. 

“Take him into the drawing-room, Gretchen,” said 


64 ^^MISS TRAUMEREI” 

Frau von Berwitz, “or we shall not be able to hear a 
word.” 

A large, glossy black cat, looking very much like 
a fluffy silken ball, lay sleeping on a chair. As the 
maid lifted the cage over his head he opened a pair 
of topaz eyes, which gleamed with an eger, wicked 
light at sight of the tiny songster. With a noiseless 
bound he was on the floor, head up, every muscle 
alert, treading stealthily near the gilded prison. The 
bird fluttered uneasily against the bars, and Gretchen, 
hearing a frightened chirp, quickly raised the cage. 
“Sh!” came sharply from between her teeth, with a 
menace at the cat. The animal shrank back, but 
when Muriel cried out to him, “Come, Mime! Come 
my Mimechen,” he needed no second bidding to 
spring into his mistress’s lap and sit there blinking 
and purring loudly. As the meal progressed and 
attention was diverted from him, he slyly reached to- 
wards her plate, caught a piece of cold tongue in 
his claws and slipped to the floor. 

Hohenfels, absorbed in the scene and envying the 
cat Muriel’s caresses, was aroused by Frau von 
Berwitz’s voice. She had finished pouring the tea 
from a little silver urn, surmounted by Lohengrin’s 
swan, and was opening a sealed envelope which lay 
on her plate. 

“With your permission,” she said. “I have been 
anxiously awaiting this.” 

Lifting her eyeglasses, she hastily read the letter, a 
look of glad surprise growing in her face. 

“Carl will be here at one o’clock to-night,” she said, 


^^MISS TRAUMEREI 


65 


addressing Fraulein Panzer. Then turning to the 
others, “Mr. Stanford, an American whom I brought 
up is coming for a visit. He was only six and his 
sister eight when their father, a captain in the* United 
States Navy, brought them to me. Their mother 
requested it on her deathbed. She was English, and 
had been educated here in Weimar. To be brief, 
they stayed with me twelve years, and, truly, I love 
them as my own. Helen was married to a physician 
in New York a year or so after their return. Carl 
went to Harvard College and became a lawyer. He 
spent a part of every summer with me until three 
years ago. This is his first trip to Europe since then. 
He reached London a fortnight ago on business of 
such a pressing nature that he was doubtful of visit- 
ing Weimar; but now he really is coming, and, I 

hope, for a long stay. I am sure ” Wishing 

them to like him, Frau von Berwitz checked the 
words of adulation on her lips. 

Muriel and Hohenfels were both secretly vexed to 
hear of the approaching visit, though from widely 
different causes. In the first place, Liszt’s early re- 
turn to Weimar had frustrated the plan of recreation 
which her health demanded. Accepting that, then, 
as inevitable, she had resolved to avoid all social in- 
tercourse until such a time as the independent semi- 
open-air life at the old mansion should restore her 
to her normal physical condition. How would that 
be possible after the advent of a stranger? As a 
member of the household she would have to exert 
herself to be affable, and she was under too severe 


66 


*<MISS TRAUMEREI 


a strain already. What she needed was freedom, and 
apparently she had had the last of it. To-morrow 
would come this man, in whom she felt no interest. 
To be sure she had heard Frau von Berwitz mention 
his name occasionally, and there was a photograph 
of him in the library, which had not impressed her 
more than the picture of any other young man, 
though it was said to be a poor reproduction. At 
any rate he was coming at the wrong time ; he would 
always be sitting in the garden, where, after a long 
practice, she liked to walk the central path, with her 
arms crossed behind her to expand her lungs. She 
was not especially opposed to his, but to any one’s 
entering the household. She knew it would hamper 
her movements in every way. Her features, however, 
gave no indication of what was passing in her mind. 

Presently the meal was over, and she was left 
alone with Frau von Berwitz. They sat a few mo- 
ments conversing in the drawing-room; then, saying 
“good-night,” Muriel started wearily down the Cloister. 
A long line of ancestral portraits on her right seemed 
so many living images pressing towards her in the 
dim light from without. Drawing herself together 
with a faint shudder, she tripped airily enough the 
rest of the way to her rose-embowered suite at the 
end of the corridor, just above the garden salon. 

The moon was not yet up as she took a last look 
at the starry night. The garden below lay partially 
obscured in shadow, but its sweet, fresh fragrance 

filled the air. “To-morrow — ah, me she sighed, 

“it will be changed!” 


CHAPTER VII. 

The rising sun, streaming in at the open window, 
stole athwart MurieFs face by half-past six, and broke 
her deep slumber. She was invigorated by a long, 
undisturbed rest, and the first fresh breath of the early 
morning, freighted with the aromatic perfumes of the 
garden, acted as a stimulant to her senses. Impul- 
sively she sprang up and went about a hasty toilet. 
Walking had ever been her favorite form of outdoor 
exercise, and was, in fact, the only one feasible at 
present. Thinking pleasurably of the walled garden 
where in the past she had roamed at will, secure from 
intrusion, she suddenly remembered the American 
who was to have come in the night. With a revul- 
sion of feeling, she determined to go far over the hills 
beyond the river, rather than run the risk of meet- 
ing him in her private domain; but no, the barracks 
were up there, and she might meet Hohenfels, who 
was always out early. There was the Belvedere Al- 
lee though, lovely at all times, but never more 
so than at early morning, with the birds singing in 
the patriarchal trees overhead, the fresh, sweet odors 
rising from the flowering shrubs in the park, and the 
sunbeams steafing through the interstices of the foli- 
age and dancing across the white, still promenade. 

She slipped quietly out of the house, through the 
court to the garden. In a distant comer she espied 
Gretchen, who, watering-pot in hand, was closely fol- 

67 


68 


^^MISS TRAUMEREI 


lowed by two little flaxen-haired, pale-eyed sisters 
who lived on the second floor back. Unsuspected, 
Muriel approached the trio. 

“Mariechen,” she called; “Mariechen, have you for- 
gotten me?” 

The younger of the two children, a baby of three, 
turned so quickly at hearing her name that she sat 
down in the gravel path. Elsa, the elder by six years, 
tugged vigorously and vainly at her hand to help her 
to her feet. “Get up!” she cried; but Mariechen only 
became the more abject, sinking her head lower and 
running her thumb further into her mouth. 

“Mariechen!” remonstrated Gretchen, “shame! 
shame! The black man will get you if you act so. 
This is the kind Fraulein who has given you so many 
pretty things. Where did you get ‘Schneeweiss and 
Rdschen’? Ah, ha! And the big picture book?” 

Muriel had gathered up the little maid and im- 
printed a kiss on the single clean spot on her tear- 
besmeared face, a mark of attention which made her 
kick and sniffle plaintively. 

“Look! There comes the black man!” cried 
Gretchen. 

Mariechen broke into a terrified howl, and 
squirmed so vigorously that Muriel, fearful of drop- 
ping her, had to put her down. The child clutched 
convulsively at Elsa’s short frock and buried her head 
in its skimp folds, her chubby body trembling from 
tip to toe with nervous fright. Muriel delivered to 
the servant a mild lecture on the evils of false repre- 
sentation; and, after a second ineffectual attempt to 


^^M/SS TRAUMEREI^' 69 

win Mariechen’s confidence, left the garden by the 
rear exit. 

More than an hour had elapsed when she returned 
to find the breakfast-table spread under the protecting 
boughs of two bushy plum-trees just outside the 
music-room door; and, facing each other across the 
spotless cloth, her hostess and the gray-clad figure 
of a broad-shouldered man. Her first impulse was 
to turn back, go round the block, and come in by the 
front entrance. It would give her a chance to take 
a reassuring look in the mirror before meeting her 
countryman. 

But it was too late to retreat. Frau von Berwitz 
had seen her; and nodded a greeting from the dis- 
tance. What difference did it make, after all, she 
reflected, coming up the path. He was nothing to 
her and never would be. In fact, she wished him well 
out of the way for a fortnight at least. Was it, though, 
right of her to cherish resentment when it made dear, 
good Frau von Berwitz so blissful to have her foster- 
son there? Putting aside personal considerations for 
the moment, she gave herself a mental shake and 
stopped at the table. 

“Muriel, this is Mr. Stanford. Miss Holme, Carl.” 

The young man quickly proved his six feet of stat- 
ure, and Muriel, acknowledging the introduction, be- 
came aware of a blonde head and moustache, and two 
large gray eyes nearing the line of her vision. With 
no further notice of him, she sat down beside Frau 
von Berwitz and began to remove her gloves. 

The abrupt silence, following the animated conver- 


70 


^^MISS TRAUMEREI 


sation which her advent had checked, gave her an 
uncomfortable sensation. Instinctively she turned to 
her hostess, who was regarding her bright color and 
quicker glance with a quiet smile of approval, un- 
mindful of the embarrassing pause. 

At Muriel’s look Frau von Berwitz said kindly: “We 
were just speaking of you, my dear, as you came up.” 

“I don’t wonder, when I was delaying breakfast so 
long.” 

“Not for that reason, Miss Holme,” said Stanford, 
speaking for the first time; “Xante Anna was relating 
some very pleasant things of you which ” 

“ Have prepared you to hate me, of course,” 

she quickly, though pleasantly, interposed, giving 
him a bright look. “So much the better,” she ob- 
served mentally, with a return of the old antagonism ; 
“now he will leave the garden to me.” 

Something in the quality of his voice had given 
her a peculiar thrill. She only remarked its clear, 
ringing tones and admirable modulation, thinking he 
ought to sing well. So he did! Frau von Berwitz 
had once said so. She would bear it in mind. All 
this flashed through her brain as she lifted her eyes 
to his face. 

“No,” he replied, in firm, sonorous accents, a pure 
enunciation giving special significance to each word, 
“my mental digestion was too slow; your arrival is — 
‘pportune!” An affable smile parted his lips, barely 
revealing two rows of perfect teeth. 

“His features are all perfect,” she thought, regard- 
ing him with wonder. He is equal to any master- 


<^MISS TRAUMEREl ” 71 

piece of the sculptor’s art. What a pity he is so hand- 
some. I am always suspicious of handsome men. 
Fortunately his eyes and mouth protect him from any 
imputation of weakness. Probably there is some 
wickedness, though, lurking under the surface some- 
where. Probably, too, he has plenty of conceit. But 
supposing he has ; any self-respecting man must place 
a value on himself; even if it is too high, it must im- 
prove him.” 

But Muriel’s spoken thought was only: “Ah, that 
restores my appetite.” 

“Then you have found one at last?” questioned 
Frau von Berwitz, taking her at her word and turn- 
ing to Stanford. “Miss Holme has subsisted on music 
since her arrival. A good thing in its way; but not 
conducive to physical growth. Now, Muriel, I hope 
you purpose being reasonable by repeating that walk 
daily.” 

“I do,” she said, reflecting in secret amusement on 
the cause of the pilgrimage, “since it resulted so 
agreeably.” 

“Where did you go?” 

“Toward Belvedere! I met the Master coming from 
early mass as I turned into the Allee by his house. 
T will not detain you,’ he said to Ilmstedt, who was 
with him. We were just at the gate. Poor Ilmstedt! 
It is such a pity the Master dislikes him! Off he 
went, looking miserably dejected, trying to smile an 
‘adieu’ as he saw us start up the promenade. Pauline 
says he is at the house by half-past five, every morn- 
ing, to escort Liszt to six o’clock mass. His devo- 


72 


‘ ^MISS TRA UMEREI 


tion is touching. The Master is too kindly to resent 
it; but as Ilmstedt disappeared he said, ‘A good fel- 
low; but ” Muriel shrugged her shoulders, spread 

her palms, and put out her under lip in imitation of 
the Master. 

“Meister went only a few steps further, saying he 
had to work before breakfast — he rises by four, at 
latest,” she explained to Stanford — ‘‘so I returned 
with him to the house door and then went my way.” 

“Had he anything special to say?”^ queried Frau 
von Berwitz. 

“Yes. Xaver Scharwenka is coming to-morrow for 
a short visit.” 

“Ah? We must invite him here.” 

“Of course,” assented Muriel ; “I told the Master so. 
He dines there at half-past one. I will send him a 
note asking him to tea.” 

“Miss Holme has studied with him in Berlin for 
five years,” said Frau von Berwitz, addressing Stan- 
ford. 

“Yes; as I went to take leave of the Master after 
my first summer here, I requested him to recommend 
a Berlin teacher for the ensuing winter; and he named 
Xaver Scharwenka. I had been with him three years 
already, though he did not know it, for he never asks 
with whom we have studied, possibly fearing it may 
have been in a conservatory,” she subjoined with a 
smile. “He hates them. Here, Gretchen,” said Mu- 
riel to the maid, who was approaching the hostess 
with a heavily laden tray; “let me serve the coffee. 
I am not quite ready for breakfast.” 


*‘MISS TRAUMEREI” 73 

Whilst Gretchen transferred her burden to the 
table, Stanford joined in the conversation. 

“Is it not delightful, Miss Holme, this German cus- 
tom of breakfasting in the open air?” 

“Dear children,” interposed Frau von Berwitz, with 
an impulsive gesture, “do speak your mother tongue ! 
Don’t let my presence deter you. I understand it 
quite well.” 

“Always unselfish, little aunt!” said Stanford, with 
a look of filial aflection. The good woman raised 
her hands in mute protest; but he continued, “I like 
to speak German.” His eyes appealed to Muriel for 
a^ similar avowal. She was filling a cup from a rare 
old Dresden china coffee-pot, and did not look up. 
“The happiest recollections of my life are in that lan- 
guage.” 

She suddenly caught his glance, which had strayed 
to Frau von Berwitz. “One is said to like best the 
language in which one has learned to speak love,” 
she observed sweetly. 

The other two laughed abruptly, and Stanford’s 
face flushed slightly. 

“Then I confess a preference for German,” he ad- 
mitted candidly. “I never knew the meaning of love 
before coming to Weimar. Father was always at sea; 
and my mother, who rarely saw us, was a nervous 
invalid until her death. We were left to an old col- 
ored nurse’s care. Tante Anna is the only mother 
I ever knew. My heart was developed here in this 
house and garden. Nicht wahr, Tante Anna?” 

“One or two?” inquired Grace, in an aside. 


74 


^^MISS TRAUMEREI 


holding a block of sugar in the tiny silver sugar 
tongs. 

“One, please,” he answered, appreciatively recog- 
nizing another interpretation of her question. 

Frau Von Berwitz’s brown eyes were luminous 
with feeling as she said gently: “You were always 
like a son, Carl. I never knew any difference.” 

The adroit construction which Stanford had given 
Muriel’s statement touched her readily responsive 
nature. As she looked from one to the other she 
realized for the first time the close bond of feeling 
uniting the two — for Frau von Berwitz was a woman 
of sense, who never paraded her heart’s interests. All 
irritation at his coming suddenly disappeared under 
new compunctions of conscience. She saw herself, 
and not Stanford, the interloper. He had a prior and 
stronger claim on the place; and far be it from her to 
encroach. 

With a determination to atone in manner for any 
wrong she may have done him at heart, Muriel was 
now all unselfish attention. The conversation drifted 
aimlessly for a time. Stanford declared the bread 
of Saxony, and of Weimar in particular, the best 
under the sun; and the wild strawberries, to which 
Muriel presently helped him, superior in flavor to all 
others. Frau von Berwitz laughingly attributed all 
this to his partiality for the old home; but Muriel 
stoutly supported his assertions, to the no small de- 
light of the hostess. 

A glimpse of Mariechen’s tow-head appearing at 
the entrance for a stolen peep, induced a chance ref- 


^^MISS TRAUMEREI 


75 


erence to the early training of the young. From 
this the conversation branched into the common 
school system and the duties of citizenship, and they 
soon found themselves deep in a discussion of Ameri- 
can politics. Muriel surprised Stanford by her famil- 
iarity with affairs at home, after so long a residence 
abroad, and by her intelligent understanding of them. 
He responded with quick interest, and her eyes 
gleamed with enthusiasm as he gave expression to 
tastes and modes of thought similar to her own. It 
W'as an experience so rare that her whole being 
thrilled with the novelty of the emotion, and her calm, 
self-contained expression changed to one of spon- 
taneous sympathy. 

Frau von Berwitz, a silent spectator, had always 
recognized something beyond mere beauty in Mu- 
riel’s face ; she had seen it in all its changes ; but now, 
for the first time, she was forced to acknowledge it 
enthrallingly handsome. Satisfied as to their con- 
geniality, she smiled vaguely on the young people, 
without heeding a word spoken, mentally absorbed 
in the details of her housekeeping. 

Stanford logically reverted to the foundation of 
things in each argument; following it systematically 
and comprehensively to the end; invariably gaining 
his point by a statement of undeniable facts. 

Acknowledging, at length, his superior grasp of 
the subjects discussed, Muriel was content to listen 
and learn. She observed the delicacy with which he 
reverted to her incomplete arguments, presenting 
them anew with a lucidity and force which drew from 


76 


^^MISS TRAUMEREI 


her the oft-repeated comment: “He puts into words 
that which I feel, and cannot express.” Clearly he 
was a man given to serious thought ; one to work out 
the involved problems of life for himself. 

A sense of her own crude mentality suddenly shad- 
owed her happy unconsciousness of self. “Was he 
the kind of man to think this crudeness of hers due 
to any limitation of sex?” This thought was sufficient 
to set in motion the troubled undercurrent of her 
easily excited imagination, colliding at every turn 
with his. 

Noticing her expression, Stanford abruptly termi- 
nated his discourse. 

“But I weary you with all this talk, Miss Holme.” 

“Weary me?” she said, in a tone of puzzled surprise 
that she should have betrayed her wandering thoughts 
by changing countenance. “No; but an oppressive 
sense of my own ignorance does!” 

She had unconsciously spoken with a noticeable 
shade of bitterness, and the next instant was all re- 
pentance to see him flash a look of understanding 
and half reproach. 

Before he could reply, she hurried on, an apology 
in her tone : “Music takes all my time. It leaves me 
no strength for other serious study; and what little 
knowledge I gather, here and there, only helps me 
to realize my deplorable superficiality.” 

She was now thoroughly uncomfortable at the tone 
she had given their conversation. To her it seemed 
childish, as it must to him. She was dimly conscious 
that it was due to her overwrought nerves. Any wo^ 


^MISS TRAUMEREI 


11 


man might have spoken as she did. But by nature 
she was too candid to seek for a covert thrust in a 
courteous exchange of opinion. 

Muriel was eminently combative. She was like 
adamant to the least unjust resistance; but she de- 
clined to conquer by strategy. Positive evidence of 
right was her only weapon of warfare. If she fancied 
her sex depreciated by Stanford, she was certain to set 
to work to undermine the supports of his belief, until 
convinced of her victory or her error. She needed no 
greater incentive to show her strength. Intuition, 
rather than reason, seemed to guide her at such times. 
At present, her first impulse was toward conciliation. 
Therefore, she was gratified to have Stanford meet her 
half way in his reply. 

“But you know one thing — music — eminently well! 
That gives you a pedestal above the many. That as- 
sured ” 

“A momentary assurance!” interposed Muriel, with 
a mollified laugh. “It is like the ballet-dancer stand- 
ing on one toe. Let her neglect daily practice in the 
art, and she falls on her head. Ah, well,” she con- 
tinued, not caring to confide in him at their initial 
meeting her plans for the future, “some people can 
subsist on hope. I shall try to gain some of their 
comfort.” 

“If it isn’t Sophie von Hohenfels!” exclaimed Frau 
von Berwitz in amazement, breaking abruptly into 
their conversation; and rising to her feet she started 
down the path to meet Fraulein Panzer with a tall 
slender, elderly woman, in widow’s weeds, 


78 


^^MISS TRAUMEREI 


This interruption prevented any further discussion ; 
and Muriel was well pleased, for she felt that their 
congenial footing was well established, though she 
was still smarting under the humiliating opinion of 
her sex which an indefinable something in Stanford’s 
voice or manner led her to suspect him of holding. 


CHAPTER VIIL 

Muriel took a stealthy peep at her watch, and saw 
to her surprise that it was half-past nine o’clock. One 
hour late for practicing! No matter. She had learned 
something by staying; most of all, that women 
were of inferior mental calibre to men, she reflected 
with grim humor. She didn’t believe it; but, were it 
so, it was not pleasant to be told it. 

She looked up. It was not possible to meet Stan- 
ford’s honest, kindly eyes and harbor such thoughts. 
A delicious warmth suffused her entire being. How 
delightful the garden seemed this morning. Were 
the roses ever more beautiful or their perfume more 
intoxicating. See how the sheltering foliage traces 
delicate, flitting shadows over the immaculate cloth. 
One could almost taste the soft sunlit air, such a day 
as this. 

Muriel had completely forgotten the danger which 
threatened her enjoyment of the place at rising-time. 
She leaned back heavily against the trunk of the 
tree and gave way to unalloyed contentment, as if 
to make the most of the minute or two left before the 
advancing trio joined them. Then she must excuse 
herself and go to work. 

‘‘Oh, vexation! That must be the Count’s mother. 
It will never do to go running off the minute she ar- 
rives. My practicing, my practicing! I wonder 

how soon I can excuse myself? That is like unto 
79 


8o 


^^MISS TRAUMEREI 


the reception of the Prodigal Son. A cheerful greet- 
ing for a newly-made widow. I suppose Frau von 
Berwitz is congratulating her, if, as reported, she was 
being tyrannized to death by the old Count. Why, that 
is the way they used to call the cows at Pembroke 
Farm!” Muriel smiled faintly at the remembrance. 

These last reflections were induced by the gyra- 
tions and vociferations of the hostess, who had flung 
her arms about the Countess with a laugh of wel- 
come, and thereupon began hallooing in her right 
ear. Fraulein Panzer was dancing about them in a 
nervous, delighted way, excitedly shouting detached 
phrases in a high-pitched voice, so that neither of 
the women could be understood by Muriel and Stan- 
ford. 

“I suppose I ought to toss up my hat and cheer 
lustily to make the reception complete,” observed the 
latter, looking over his shoulder in humorous appre- 
ciation of the scene. 

Fraulein Panzer, catching his eye, suddenly ceased 
her lively movements. 

“Mr. Stanford!” she shrieked in the same high 
voice. “Herr Je! I had entirely forgotten that you 
were to be here in the excitement of the Countess’ 
coming:” but she darted forward to meet him with a 
manner which amply atoned for the candid indif- 
ference of her words. 

“It is worth the trouble of a journey just to have 
a German welcome one home,” Muriel was thinking, 
as she watched the genuine heartiness of the re- 
ception so distinctively national; and she forthwith 


^^MISS TRAUMEREI 


8i 


marked one more to the score of her affectionate re- 
gard for the people whose hospitable country had so 
long been her shelter. 

Fraulein Panzer suddenly lowered her voice with 
a little laugh as Muriel rose to greet her. “It proves 
the slavery of habit,” she apologized; “my friend is 
painfully deaf, and we have been conversing for two 
hours. I had to invent some excuse to get my 
maid out of the house, as I didn’t care to take her 
into our confidence.” And the little woman won- 
dered what Muriel would have said, had she known 
the theme of their discussion. 

The latter innocently remarked upon the unan- 
nounced arrival of the Countess. 

“It was a surprise planned for Fritz and Frau von 
Berwitz, my dear. The boy will know nothing of 
it until he comes to me at eleven o’clock.” 

“My American children!” hallooed the hostess, 
coming opposite with a flourish of her unoccupied 
arm. Miss Holme — Mr. Stanford.” 

As Fraulein Panzer’s nervous laugh increased the 
confusion of tones, Muriel lost the Countess’ low- 
spoken words; their significance, however, was in- 
terpreted by the warm hand-pressure and the cordial 
smile illuminating her refined features — so like her 
son’s, Muriel thought — as both lingered a moment, 
standing. Muriel felt herself in sympathy with the 
Countess and wished to see her eyes, concealed by 
a pair of smoked spectacles. Her voice, too, was 
agreeable, when given a chance to be heard in the 
general conversation which followed. 


82 


^MISS TRAUMEREP* 


“But you will join our party at Tiefurt this after- 
noon, will you not?” inquired Fraulein Panzer in a 
high key. “Of course, you’ll go, Anna; and you,” 
she added, with ai smile at Stanford. “Fritz will, 
doubtless, come, tco, later.” 

“I fear it—” 

“Nonsense, Muriel!” exclaimed Frau von Berwitz, 
interrupting her, “if you don’t amuse yourself more I 
myself will go to Meister Liszt and tell him how you 
work at the expense of your health!” 

“Very well, then,” rejoined Muriel, with a yielding 
smile, “but I can’t leave, here until after four. I will 
walk out, Xante Anna, so make your plans accord- 
ingly; I prefer the exercise.” 

“So do I,” said Stanford, hastily; “you will permit 
me to accompany you, will you not. Miss Holme?” 

“How stupid of me,” thought Muriel. “Now he 
will think I did that purposely.” She darted a ner- 
vous glance at the three ladies as she said: “Don’t 
think of it! I am accustomed to go everywhere 
alone about here. Thank you, but ” 

“Certainly, it is just the thing ” ejaculated Frau- 

lein Panzer. “And we old ladies will drive out.” The 
next instant she would have been glad to frustrate 
that very plan, as Fritz came into her mind; but it 
was too late. Frau von Berwitz was saying, “Quite 
right, we will arrange the details at dinner.” 

“Muriel looked helplessly at Stanford and felt her- 
self flush slightly as she said “Aufwiedersehen” to 
the company, and turned towards the mansion. 


CHAPTER IX. 

“Boom — boom!” pealed out the first octaves of 
Liszt’s E flat major concerto, which, as a special dis- 
pensation, the composer had consented to hear the 
following day, saying, as he did so, “Its strains have 
long been silent at the Royal Gardens”; and, though 
Muriel had been careful to close the doors of her 
music-room, the roar of the ensuing crescendo pas- 
sage made conversation with the Countess imprac- 
ticable. Having, like the majority of pianists, an 
antipathy to being overheard at practice, Muriel was 
gratified to have Frau von Berwitz push open the 
double doors and say, “We are going to the front,” 
as she led her guests away. 

After two hours of concentration upon her work 
Muriel stood hatless in the bright, warm sunshine 
without, too absorbed still to divert her train of 
thought. Though wearied by countless repetitions 
of the many difficult passages of the concerto, she 
nevertheless rubbed and stretched her moist hands 
with an exquisite sense of joy in the feeling of mastery 
assured by their firm, supple grasp. The chime 
in the castle tower abruptly silenced the faint in- 
definable murmur rising from the little city. Muriel 
glanced at the painted table under the plum-trees. 
It was flooded with sunshine, and a last fragment of 
shadow cooled the broad threshhold of her music- 
room door. With a quickened gleam of the eye, as 


84 


<^MISS TRAUMEREI 


she thought of the breakfast party, she moved toward 
the central walk. 

When she resumed practicing a half-hour later, 
Muriel was not conscious of having devoted the en- 
tire interval to thought of Stanford, nor that the com- 
bative spirit aroused in her and stimulating her 
weary muscles, was a mere desire to gain his homage. 

Gretchen came at half-past one to announce din- 
ner. 

As Muriel crossed the inner court, she experienced 
a strange commingling of emotions, now that she was 
again to meet Stanford. The magnetism of his pres- 
ence attracted her; his possible undervaluation of the 
female intellect made her dread to face him again, 
and the fact that she must conceal her own thoughts 
in bright conversation fell like a new burden on her 
weary shoulders. Her spirit shed tears of vexation. 
Whilst ascending the rambling stairway she acknowl- 
edged to herself, for the first time, that overwork had 
unnerved her. In a state of agitated uncertainty, 
ready to respond with either a genial smile or an 
easy indiflerence to Stanford’s greeting, she entered 
the drawing-room. 

He was alone, reading by an open window; but he 
immediately dropped his paper and rose to receive 
her, saying, “Your industry. Miss Holme, deserves 
the reward of a good appetite.” 

Something in his voice or his presence seemed to 
give her strength. Self was forgotten in the frank 
return of his genial look. “Thank you,” she re- 
sponded, with equal affability, “I think it must be 


^^MTSS TRAUMEREI 


85 

the atmosphere of that charming garden. I can truly 
say, I always welcome Gretchen’s summons to dinner.” 

“You are fortunate in having that ideal retreat 
for your work.” 

“Doubly so!” said Muriel. “You know the stat- 
ute which regulates practicing?” 

“I do not recall it.” 

“The city authorities have prohibited, under pen- 
alty of the law, the playing of any musical instrument 
in a room with doors or windows open on the street.” 

“Which makes music a hot-house growth in Wei- 
mar,” suggested Stanford, offering Muriel a chair 
and resuming his former seat. 

“Practically!” was the animated response, “for it is 
the summer time which draws so many pianists here. 
With the addition of players of every sort from the 
Orchestral School, every block in town would other- 
wise be rendered uninhabitable. It is hard, though, 
for the poor workers, who have to swelter through 
the midsummer heat. Only one restriction is placed 
on me in my garden salon. Owing to the proximity 
of the church, no music is permitted in our neighbor- 
hood during the hours of service, Sunday morning, 
from half-past nine to eleven o’clock. I knew nothing 
of this until one Sunday morning last summer, when 
a loud clapping of hands interrupted my practice, and 
through the back window of an adjacent house sten- 
torian lungs proclaimed the law covering my offense.” 

“What! speaking German together?” Frau von 
Berwitz stood in the dining-room arch, fastening the 
portieres in place as she spoke. 


86 


‘ ‘MISS TRAUMEREI ” 


“I was not aware of it,” replied Muriel simply; and 
she remembered having said to Stanford at breakfast : 
“One prefers the language in which one has learned 
to speak love. How silly!” she thought, with annoy- 
ance at the suggestion. 

“Dinner, my children. Come!” Frau von Ber- 
witz smiled at Muriel without speaking, as Stanford 
leaned over the table to put aside an exquisite centre- 
piece of freshly-cut roses, and trace, with his finger, 
the outlines of a faded figure- which had been woven 
into the immaculate linen. 

“The Fall of Babylon,” said he finally, looking up 
with a smile of interest at Muriel. “My first and most 
lasting lessons in Biblical history were gained from 
Tante Anna’s various tablecloths. They would make 
a regular picture gallery if put on exhibition. Tante 
Anna explained each to me as it chanced to ap- 
pear.” 

“A biennial event!” interposed Frau von Berwitz. 
“To see my storerooms, one. would think me de- 
scended from generations of weavers. I was left lit- 
tle else than products of the loom! Regardless of 
how it has been accumulating in the family, each 
bride brought with her bed and table-linen enough 
for her lifetime. Consequently my largest posses- 
sion to-day is so much dead capital.” 

“And here is the date of its foundation,” said Stan- 
ford, who had taken his place with the others at the 
table and was deciphering the dim figure “1710,” 
which had originally been hand-embroidered in blue 
silk above a heraldic; device in the corner of his 


‘ ‘M/SS TRA UMEREI 87 

napkin. “That is the oldest. Then comes the next 
generation, ‘seventeen hundred twenty-eight’ ” 

“Seventeen forty-eight,” continued Muriel, begin- 
ning to name them off on her fingers, “seventeen 
sixty-sev ” 

“Quite right!” laughed Stanford, “I see you know 
them, too.” 

“And the pictures also,” responded she. “We had 
‘Abraham offering up Jacob’ at breakfast.” 

“Isaac, my dear!” exclaimed Frau von Berwitz, 
“not Jacob.” 

Muriel subsided with a merry laugh. 

“Ah! That one I shall never forget,” began Stan- 
ford, jocosely, “though I didn’t notice it this morn- 
ing. One of my earliest recollections is letting an 
overripe strawberry fall on Isaac. As table deport- 
ment was a feature of Tante Anna’s discipline, I gath- 
ered it up, mashing it the more, of course, and then 
pushed my saucer over the stain. ‘So Abraham did 
actually sacrifice his son, Carl?’ inquired Tante Anna, 
promptly uncovering the spot with a significant look 
at me. I never forgave Isaac the harm I had done 
him!” 

“I hope time has exonerated me, my son,” laughed 
Frau von Berwitz. 

“Judge of that yourself, Tante,” said Stanford, lift- 
ing her hand to his lips. 

In this genial atmosphere Muriel became light- 
hearted, and felt increasing satisfaction with her young 
countryman. Their acquaintance had progressed 
considerably, when Frau von Berwitz pushed back 


88 


^^MTSS TRAUMEREI 


her chair after dessert, and said: “Now, Carl, we 
will leave you to your cigar; or, if Muriel does not 
object tathe smoke, you may come into the drawing- 
room.” 

“Not in the least!” interposed Muriel, hastily, “I 
rather enjoy the fumes of a good cigar.” 

“Thank you very much, ladies, but I have not 
smoked for a year, and shall not begin again to-day.” 

“How so?” said Frau von Berwitz in surprise, 

“I am trying an experiment,” replied Stanford, 
following them into the next room. “I hope to at- 
tain my greatest working capacity, and, therefore, 
deny myself everything which might prove a hin- 
drance. I have not touched wine or liquor of any 
sort for a twelvemonth, and take cof¥ee for break- 
fast only. Perhaps I shall have to change my rule 
somewhat while in Europe, but only when courtesy 
demands it.” 

As he did not dwell on the subject Muriel believed 
him, and she unconsciously dropped out of the con- 
versation in thinking how few men had the courage 
and strength to live up to their better convictions. 
It was some little time before Muriel recovered her- 
self with a scarcely perceptible start, to rise abruptly 
and say she must practice. She was going, without 
a reference to the projected excursion, when Stan- 
ford asked where they should meet to walk out and 
join the others. 

“In this room,” she said, “at four:” and she passed 
out thinking ruefully of the short time left for her 
work. 


CHAPTER X. 

The extensive and beautiful royal park of Tiefurt, 
once the favorite residence of the Duchess Amalia, 
and now, throug-h the ^race of her grandson — the ven- 
erable Grand Duke Carl Alexander — free of access to 
the public, lies distant from Weimar about a mile and 
a half down the valley of the Ilm. It was here, on the 
greensward and in the shadow of grand old forest 
trees, that the plays of Goethe and Schiller were first 
enacted, near the end of the last century, in the pres- 
ence of the assembled ducal court. 

The ancient building, called by courtesy the “Cas- 
tle,” has degenerated into an abode for the small res- 
taurateur who furnishes simple refreshment to the 
wayfarer, under the spreading boughs of a group of 
trees on the other side of the drive, and opposite the 
worn stone entrance. 

As the first arrivals of the afternoon, Frau von Ber- 
witz, Fraulein Panzer and the Countess dismissed 
their conveyance and settled themselves at the longest 
table available; Muriel and Stanford passed over the 
new stone bridge which faces the Urn’s falling waters 
below the palace in Weimar, and ascended a slight 
elevation to a fork in the road. The main branch, 
which turns and leads on up the hill, is soon merged 
in the splendid Tiefurter Chaussee which skirts, on the 
left, the “Webicht,” a heavily wooded pheasant-pre- 
serve occupying almost the entire plateau- The other, 

89 


90 


‘^31ISS TRAUMEREI 


a narrow carriageway, plunges abruptly into a lesser 
thicket and follows the river course through the low- 
lands; 

'‘Which way?” asked Stanford, halting to look 
down the shadowy vista, and then at the canopy of 
fleckless blue above. 

“The lower,” said Muriel, divining his preference, 
and moving on. 

“You are not afraid of the dampness?” 

“Not in the least.” 

Her heart lightened by a feeling of security in 
his companionship, Muriel’s spirits rose at the vision 
of the broadening grasslands, dashed with the varie- 
gated tints of a myriad flowers, whose delicate per- 
fume a day’s sun had drawn from moist petals into 
the rain-clarified air. 

“Isn’t it delicious!” she exclaimed, fervently, turn- 
ing her face to the sun and closing her eyes as a 
boundless caress of all nature welled up from a heart 
full of thanksgiving to the great Unknown. She won- 
dered at her happiness ; why had the world never be- 
fore seemed so beautiful to her? She had taken this 
path many a time. She knew every depression and 
turn in it; the enclosing hills were her friends. 

“It’s Weimar,” she said aloud, answering her own 
silent questioning; “dear Weimar!” 

Stanford watched her with a smile on his handsome 
face and began plucking the blue cornflowers peep- 
ing out the long grass. “Kaiser-Blumen,” the Ger- 
man likes to call them, for they were the favored of 
the beloved old Emperor William I, 


TRAUMEREr^ 91 

Muriel pulled her hat further over her face and 
looked down. 

“I sometimes feel that it must hurt,” she mused, 
watching him snap the stems. 

“But it does not withhold you from wearing them?” 

“No, thank you,” she laughingly added, taking the 
proffered flowers and fastening them in her dress. 
“I am cruel enough for that.” 

They passed beneath the lofty, handsome railroad 
bridge of stone, and following a short cut across the 
meadows to the right, came into the hard white Tie- 
furter Chaussee where it descends between long rows 
of cherry-trees to the valley. On a terrace above the 
street, a popular inn and embowered garden, the ’‘Fel- 
senkeller,” looked across the fields to its vine-en- 
shrouded rival, “The Rosenkranz,” planted on the 
perpendicular further bank of the Ilm, where the 
waters are lashed into foam as they leap noisily over 
the milldam in the shadow of Tiefurt. 

The Chaussee bridges the stream where its turbu- 
lent flight has sobered down into a dignified gait; and, 
just beyond lies the defunct-looking hamlet. 

There is a great stone wall, interrupted by a broad 
entrance with massive gates thrown back; but, in- 
stead of the green turf, gorgeous flowers, and patri- 
archal trees of the grand old park, an ancient farm- 
yard unfolds its paved length. 

As Muriel and Stanford cautiously sought a footing 
between the opposing lines of oddly-fashioned hay- 
racks, carts, and tall milk-cans outlying the quaint 
low buildings, a pea-hen, promenading the tall inner 


92 


^^MISS TRAUMEREI 


wall alongside the second gateway, called attention 
to her brilliant plumage by prolonged and discordant 
vociferations. 

“Ach, that terrible fowl!” cried a high-pitched mu- 
sical voice in the distance. “I would rather hear a 
fog-horn.” 

“FrMein Panzer!” said Muriel, with a hearty 
laugh; and as they confronted the beauteous vista 
opening up before them, the little spinster raised her 
head to shout again in the ear of the Countess, who 
sat between her and Frau von Berwitz, and espied 
them coming down the broad drive. 

“Ah! Welcome, my friends!” she cried, with a sin- 
cerity* which her oversight in aiding the two young 
people to come together italicized. “Now I have 
them under my eye,” she reflected. “Use diplomacy, 
Clara!” Resigning her seat by the Countess to Mu- 
riel, she took a place next to Stanford, on the opposite 
side of the table. 

At the sound of new voices a ponderous waiting- 
woman waddled forth across the drive to take the 
order. 

“That is the charm of life in Germany,” exclaimed 
Fraulein Panzer, glancing over her shoulder at the 
stolid visage. “Coffee for five — in a hurry — Hanchen, 
dear! — ^you can always get refreshment of some sort, 
everywhere. Last summer I had such an experience 
up in Christiania!” The little woman paused in her 
knitting to raise her hands and roll her eyes at the 
overhanging boughs. “I had stopped there two or 
three days with my brother and his wife on our way 


‘^MISS TRAUMEREI 


93 


to the North Cape. One morning, after breakfast, a 
gentleman to whom we had a letter of introduction 
invited us to accompany him up a hill celebrated for 
its view. The way was endless, and my brother al- 
most a ton in weight, so we stopped often to rest and 
chat. About ten o’clock I began to get hungry, but 
thinking we would soon reach an inn, I said nothing 
about it. After a time, I grew actually faint. Again 
I consoled myself with a vision of an imminent re- 
freshment stand, for the hill was a popular resort. 
We plodded on and up. When I was ready to drop 
with fatigue, we caught sight of a Greek-looking 
house on the summit of the eminence. ‘Almighty 
Father!’ I gasped, stopping short in the path, ‘I thank 
Thee from the depths of my — heart for that res- 
taurant!’ ” 

“ ‘Restaurant? Where?’ Our guide looked naively 
up hill and down. 

“‘There!’ I whispered, breathlessly. 

“‘That is not a restaurant,’ said the Swede, ‘it is 
merely a lookout built for the comfort of pedestrians.’ 

“‘What! a lookout? A lookout? Oh, I see,’ said 
I, calming my fears somewhat by the thought, ‘the res- 
taurant is close behind it’ 

“‘No,’ answered he, quite indifferently, ‘there is 
nothing of the kind on this hill.’ Well,” resumed 
Fraulein Panzer, after a bit of ludicrous by-play, “we 
went without food until we reached our hotel again 
at two o’clock! Ah, the coffee!” 

With the steaming beverage in hand, and followed 
by a dull-faced maid bearing a tray of cups and 


94 


^^MISS TRAUMEREV 


saucers, Hanchen was powdering^ the gravel under her 
spreading feet. Frau von Berwitz prepared to do the 
honors by producing a paper parcel of homemade 
cake from her embroidered bag and arranging it on 
a plate. “A necessary precaution,” she explained, 
“one can’t depend upon getting it here.” 

Groups of women and children, who had walked 
out from Weimar, enlivened the scene at intervals, 
and then disappeared amongst the foliage. Suddenly 
a score or more boarding school misses, with two 
elderly teachers following the buzz of their voices, 
came from the park. 

Making a concerted swoop on the scattered chairs, 
they gathered about some long tables which they had 
joined in line. The combined ofiforts of the two at- 
tendants proved unavailing in this emergency. Ac- 
cordingly, five or six hungry pupils had a merry time 
racing to the castle and back with earthen jars of 
sweet milk or bonnie-clabber, which was ladled out 
by one of the teachers. 

In the midst of this hurry and scurry, a trio of 
erect, brilliantly uniformed young officers marched 
with clank of sabre and spur out through the great 
gateway and towards Frau von Berwitz’s table. 
Fraulein Panzer, who had been expecting them, 
sprang up with a cry of welcome, and, after they had 
greeted the other ladies, she introduced Stanford to 
Count von Hohenfels, Lieutenant von Jahn, and 
Lieutenant von Bernsdorf. 

“Just enough to discourage general conversation,” 
she reflected gleefully, as von Hohenfels seized the 


^^MISS TRAUMEREI 


95 


vacant chair beside Muriel at the further end of the 
table. “Bernsdorf has a voice like a calliope. Anna 
must give him her place next the Countess and sit 
at the other end; then I think I can manage things.” 
This arrangement relieved Muriel. The sustained 
effort attending a prolonged conversation on ram- 
bling topics with the Countess had taken from her 
cheeks all the bloom which the walk from Weimar 
had given; therefore, von Hohenfels found an ap- 
preciative listener to his animated flow of words. 

Stanford was discussing Goethe with Herr von 
Jahn, who dabbled somewhat in literature as a recrea- 
tion from military life, when he sprang suddenly to 
his feet and threw up his arms with a shout of 
warning. 

“Halt, man!” he cried, darting at an aged work- 
man who had come out of a side path concealed by 
the shrubbery, and was pushing a wheelbarrow be- 
fore him. The laborer stood still in utter bewilder- 
ment. Stanford bent over and lifted a tiny object out 
of a rut, almost from under the wheel of the barrow. 

“There,” he said quietly, in a tone of relief. “Of 
course you couldn’t see it. All right!” He passed 
a small coin to the man, who tipped his cap and 
moved wonderingly on without speaking. 

“What is it, Carl?” inquired Frau von Berwitz, re- 
laxing an anxious countenance. 

“A young bird. See the little fellow. He is just 
from the nest, and doesn’t quite know what to make 
of it all.” And Stanford tenderly stroked the ugly 
little creature, who, finding himself subjected to such 


<M/SS TRAUMEREI 


96 

unusual attentions, began to show signs of uneasiness. 

“All right, little one; try your wings, if you like,” 
said he, watching the bird as it fluttered away to an 
adjacent shrub and sat there panting from fright and 
exertion. 

Stanford’s spontaneous act had removed any pos- 
sible constraint following from a first introduction, 
and a more genial warmth pervaded the entire com- 
pany. 

Muriel was a smiling observer of the general awak- 
ening, though until she heard his voice again she 
gave no heed to what was being said, for her mind 
was occupied with Stanford’s tender consideration of 
the brute creation. 

“That workman recalls a character study, the por- 
trait of a wrinkled, dried-up old man which I saw 
a year or so ago in America. The original was said 
to be the former night watchman in this hamlet.” 

“He lives here still,” interjected Lieutenant von 
Jahn, with sudden interest, “and is regarded as quite 
a historical personage. The frequenters of this place 
often send for him to come over.” 

“Then let us do so,” exclaimed Muriel: and she 
turned to question the obese hostess, who had taken 
her station near the table, with speculative intent to 
serve those carrying the longest purses. 

“He works on the roads, gracious Fraulein, and 
will not be at leisure until after seven o’clock. If you 
are disposed to await the hour, I will send my maid 
to his cottage to summon him.” 

“Very well; and I invite you all to stay and take 


^^MISS TRAUMEREI^^ 97 

with me the best supper Hanchen can provide. The 
old man can perform for us afterwards, and ” 

“We can walk home by moonlight,” interposed 
Fraulein Panzer, at once delighted with the scheme, 
and foreseeing an opportunity for her godson. In- 
deed, her vigilance never once relaxed, and when 
Muriel turned from giving some orders about the 
supper, before joining the party for a stroll in the park, 
it was Count von Hohenfels who stood waiting for 
her. 

Fraulein Panzer, looking back over her shoulder, 
immediately hastened her steps with Lieutenant von 
Bernsdorf to overtake the others, who had disap- 
peared on the way to a long, shady promenade at the 
rear of the castle. 

With an instinct quickened by the Count’s ardent 
manner, and the knowledge of his new-born inde- 
pendence, as well as by the friendly approaches of his 
mother, Muriel divined their pre-arranged scheme at 
a glance. She could not be displeased; he had known 
her long enough and well enough to declare himself 
were it his will; but just because of her decided, unaf- 
fected liking for him, and a premonition that he never 
could be anything more to her, the prospect of a 
change in their agreeable relations made her un- 
happy. 

At that moment an indefinable impulse to com- 
mand the situation possessed her. Almost any other 
man would have profited by her agitated bearing to 
request a word with her alone; but Hohenfels was the 
weaker nature of the two, and felt the force of her 


98 


‘ ^MISS TRAUMEREI ” 


mood sufficiently to yield and follow almost submis- 
sively as she moved swiftly away. Fully aware that 
she read his present mind aright, he looked upon her 
action as a rebuff. Wounded and too bewildered to 
collect himself, he strode silently at her side, listening 
to her now steady voice as they came up with the 
others. He could not help attributing some of his 
misfortune to the arrival of Stanford. He had first 
heard his rival’s name with a foreboding which pur- 
sued him until the hour of meeting; and at the table 
he regarded Stanford’s every expression with a jeal- 
ous thought of its possible influence on Muriel. 

“Why will a woman show her first admiration for 
a man so unmistakably?” he mused, in recalling her 
glance at Stanford as he caressed the young bird. 
“She is hard enough to read when she is on her guard 
and he really wants to know her mind.” He could 
hear the American’s clean-cut, melodious utterances 
as he courteously guided the dim-eyed Countess in 
advance of the party: and at this attention to his 
parent von Hohenfels conceived a special hatred for 
Stanford. He had seen Muriel too often in the society of 
his comrades and her other acquaintances in Weimar 
to exalt any one above himself in her regard. Stan- 
ford was the first man, therefore, to arouse his jealousy. 

Under the safeguard of other eyes, Muriel resumed 
her accustomed manner with Hohenfels, and by the 
time a circuitous route again brought them out before 
the castle, the gloom had lifted from his face. 

With the certainty of a good fee in prospect, Han- 
chen had been so skillful in the arrangement of the 


^^M/SS TRAUMEREr' 


99 


rose-bedecked table that Muriel, as hostess, was left 
without a care. But again the Count’s proximity — > 
for he had been quick to secure a place beside her — 
and his unrelaxing devotion, created in her a growing 
protest. Though she was not conscious of pre-con* 
ceived intent, yet, when, in an opportune moment, she 
made the conversation general, and knew that he was 
alternately steeped in ecstasy and devoured by jealousy, 
she did not desist from tantalizing him to the utmost. 
She knew she was appearing at her best; therefore, 
how could she refrain from attacking Stanford’s sus- 
ceptibilities, as the memory of her slight grievance 
towards him flamed brighter. 

It was this random bestowal of notice on the 
American that maddened Hohenfels, for Muriel’s 
quick intelligence made eloquent each word and 
glance. Her charm dominated the entire company. 
Each hung on her speech and spontaneously an- 
swered her magnetic appeals. 

She observed the dancing light in Frau von Ber- 
witz’s eyes, which had caught the reflection of her 
own, flicker dubiously as she turned to the Countess, 
who, in trying to understand, had rested an elbow on 
the table and placed her hand behind her ear. The 
good woman merely wondered if her afflicted friend 
could hear; but it occurred to Muriel that these con- 
ventional German matrons might be critical wit- 
nesses of her — a young, unmarried woman’s too ani- 
mated bearing in gentlemen’s society — and with a 
sharp twinge of conscience, she abruptly inquired 
for the old night watchman. 


lOO 


^^MISS TRAUMEREI 


“He is in the house, gracious Fraulein,” responded 
Hanchen, starting in an elephantine trot for the cas- 
tle. She returned with a tall, shaded lamp, which 
illuminated the table and cast long black stripes 
across the graying driveway as twilight vanished in 
night; and when she stepped aside, the ancient Tie- 
furter stood, cap in hand, bowing a hoarse “Good- 
evening to the gracious company.” 

He was tall, spare, and very much bent, and clad 
in coarse working-clothes. Keen eyes looked eagerly 
forth from a beardless countenance, seared and 
seamed with years and exposure to all sorts of weather. 
As he awaited orders, he drew the back of one horny 
hand across his nervously-twitching mouth and 
scraped his foot restlessly on the gravel. 

“Where are your paraphernalia?” asked Muriel, 
looking him over in surprise. The man didn’t seem 
to understand, and opened his mouth to speak, when 
Lieutenant von Jahn explained to him in simple lan- 
guage that he was desired to appear in his old cos- 
tume of night watchman. 

“My home is near; I can fetch them in a hurry,” 
answered the old fellow briskly, and, with an obeis- 
ance to the company, he trotted stiffly away. 

The manner of his return was worthy the wit of a 
Thespian. 

Muriel’s party sat alone in the vast silence of the 
park. Their voices rose, fell, died away and rose 
again. Hanchen stood near to do their bidding. The 
castle was as still as the night itself. A large bat 
darted through the lengthening rays of the lamp, and 


^‘MISS TRAUMEREr' 


lOI 


the light for an instant fought madly with great 
black shadows in the drive. The swelling monotone 
of a lusty horn rolled over the tree-tops into space. 
From knoll and grove a thousand faint notes floated 
back in response. 

“The great hobgoblin summoning his clan,” whis- 
pered Fraulein Panzer. “Look!” 

In the dim light of the gateway he stood, a quaint, 
bent figure enveloped in an ample circular cloak, and 
wearing a high round-peaked hat; and as he rested 
on his weapon of defense and attack, a long, halberd- 
like spear, he raised aloft a short horn and quavered 
in sometimes cracked, though not unmelodious, tones 
a semi-incoherent stanza. Between frequent repeti- 
tions of the name of the Deity could be distinguished 
an announcement to “Ye good people all” that the 
clock had “struck nine.” Advancing a few steps, his 
horn again woke the echoes, and he repeated his 
stanza to proc^laim the stroke of “ten.” Thus, by easy 
approaches, the Lord was praised at each hour of the 
night until broad daylight, for having permitted the 
simple folk of Tiefurt to live so long. 

“The sun is a bit late tp-day,” observed Fraulein 
Panzer facetiously, as the old man stopped for breath ; 
but he could no more than pucker his wrinkled vis- 
age into the semblance of a smile. 

“Bravo! bravo! Good-morning, old friend!” 

shouted Stanford. 

“Bravo! bravo! Good-morning!” the company 
sang at him in gleeful chorus. 

“Sit here,” said Muriel, resigning her place at the 


t02 


^^MISS TRAUMEREI 


end of the table that he might be seen by all, and 
taking a seat which Bernsdorf provided for her by 
the Countess. 

“Fetch him something he will like, Hanchen!” 

“He don’t want nothin’ better ’an beer,” remarked 
the woman, ambling off. 

The foaming liquid unloosed the old watchman’s 
tongue. “To a long life for the gracious company,” 
he mumbled, holding his glass before his eyes ; then, 
draining it at one draught, he handed it over to be 
refilled. 

Stanford referred to his well-preserved lung power 
and unimpaired intonation in a way that the old man 
comprehended, and when each of the party added a 
word of praise, the octogenarian scarcely knew 
how to express his delight. A fresh glass of beer, 
however, gave him opportunity to drink again “to the 
health and longevity of the assembled gracious com- 
pany,” and then he settled down in lijs chair to be 
catechised. 

“Did you know Goethe personally?” began Muriel. 

“I had not the honor, gracious lady; but in my 
childhood I frequently saw him here in Tiefurt, and, 
indeed, on this very spot.” 

When asked to tell something of the great poet’s 
appearance, the man seemed stupefied, but he vouch- 
safed, finally: “My third wife — now dead, God save 
her — had been for five or six years in her youth a 
housemaid in his service, and she related me much of 
him.” What that information was, however, no 
amount of questioning could elicit. 


‘^MISS TRAUMEREr^ 103 

Stanford asked him if he remembered being 
sketched by an artist. 

“Yes,” he answered vacantly. 

“I have seen that portrait of you very far from 
here; the other side of the broad ocean, in America.” 

A vague stare was the only response, and he eagerly 
sought refuge in the third glass of beer and an entic- 
ing sandwich prepared by Frau von Berwitz. When 
he was ready to go Muriel slipped a gold piece into 
his rough hand. With a delighted angular bow, 
much scraping of the gravel, and a “God’s blessing 
on the gracious company,” the grotesque figure hob- 
bled away towards the castle. 

Notwithstanding Fraulein Panzer’s manoeuvres, 
Muriel’s plan for Hohenfels to escort his mother, and 
Stanford Frau von Berwitz, came about quite natu- 
rally, as they left the park with Hanchen calling a 
“fine good-night!” after them. 

The rising moon had already whitened the broad, 
smooth Chaussee beyond the Ilm, and the cooling 
night air came over the lowland meadows in waves 
of delicious perfume. 

What a long, but, on the whole, what a pleasant day 
it had been, thought Muriel, as she leisurely ascended 
the hill with Lieutenant von Jahn. At the en- 
trance to the gloomy Webicht, Stanford smilingly 
offered her his left arm, and Ffohenfels, looking over 
his shoulder, saw them walking four abreast. Once, 
in helping her lightly over a damp stretch in the road, 
Stanford held her hand so close under his arm that 
she felt the beating of his heart, and after that, she 


104 


^ AflSS TRAUMERET • 


observed with pleasure that he bestowed upon her the 
same protecting attention that he bestowed upon Frau 
von Berwitz. 

Just beyond the lower bridge at Weimar, in the 
deep shadow of the old palace, hasty “good-nights” 
were said. 

Muriel had barely time to remark the feverish touch 
of the Count’s hand, before they again passed into the 
moonlight, as the clock in the tower struck eleven. 


CHAPTER XL 

The sound of childish prattle, rising from the gar- 
den to her open windows, awoke Muriel the next 
morning at six o’clock. The events of the preceding 
day recurred to her with such force that a return 
to slumber was impossible. Moreover, the prospect 
of playing in the lesson at Liszt’s that afternoon was 
incentive enough to forthwith bestir herself for an 
hour’s practice before breakfast. 

Gretchen had temporarily abandoned her watering- 
pot to do some weeding about the door of the garden 
salon. Elsa’s little fingers were busied with knitting 
a stocking for herself. Mariechen had become un- 
usually loquacious, and, forgetting her wonted timid- 
ity, she gave vent to a rippling peal of laughter. 

“Sh!” Gretchen gave her a warning look. “You 
will disturb the FrMein, Mariechen; she is still 
sleeping — up there.” 

As she pointed to the upper window, an exclama- 
tion of surprise escaped her. Muriel was smiling 
at them from amidst the rich mass of pink and white 
bloom. 

“Ach, Fraulein! Good-morning! Now, Mariechen, 
see what you have done by making such a noise. 
The gracious Fraulein could not sleep.” Mariechen’s 
chubby face fell. Her head sank forward on her 
breast and she thrust one thumb into her mouth — 
the personification of abject woe. 


i06 


‘‘MISS TRAUMEREI 


“Poor little thing. Really, Gretchen, you are too 
hard on her. She didn’t mean to do it, and it is 
high time I was up. I love to hear her laugh. Good 
morning, Elsa. Look up, Mariechen. Here!” Mu- 
riel plucked a rose and dropped it at the tiny maiden’s 
feet. 

“Thank the Fraulein, stupid!” admonished the 
elder sister, sticking the flower into the baby’s clinched 
fist. “Ach, fie, fie! what will mother say?”. It was 
of no avail. The child timidly raised her head 
enough to roll her eyes at Muriel, and as quickly low- 
ered them. 

“Never mind, Mariechen, I will soon be down, and 
then we will talk about it.” And Muriel drew back 
into the room to complete her toilet. 

As she was about to descend, she was attracted 
to the window by the mingling of a man’s laugh with 
a quick chuckle of mirth from Mariechen. Stanford 
was standing by the rose-arbor tossing the child 
above his head. Mariechen alternately caught her 
breath and screamed with delight, while Gretchen 
stood with her arms akimbo, the muddy palms of 
her hands turned out and a broad smile coaxing the 
corners of her mouth towards her ears. Elsa had 
ceased knitting to gape in speechless admiration. 

“Well, little one, how do you like it?” cried Stan- 
ford merrily. 

Mariechen responded by an irrepressible chuckle, 
as she clutched his shoulders with her two fat little 
hands, and turned her clear, laughing blue eyes on 
his moustache. 


^^MISS TRAUMEREI 


107 


“What is your name? Can you tell me? No?” 

“Tell the gentleman your name, Mariechen,” said 
Elsa reprovingly. 

“Mariechen, is it? Now, then, Mariechen, what 
say you to a canter on my shoulder?” With a quick 
movement he pitched her into place, and never wait- 
ing for an answer, he started down the central walk. 
The child’s merry shouts started Stanford’s spontan- 
eous laughter. 

“Now, tell me, little girl, who are you? Where 
do you live?” 

“They live one flight up, sir, at the rear end of 
the court, next to our Fraulein’s rooms,” volunteered 
Gretchen, who had already begun to linger over 
any task which brought her into Stanford’s charmed 
proximity. 

“Neighbors! Then we shall meet often. Eh, 
Mariechen? You won’t forget me?” 

“Indeed, she won’t, sir,” piped in Elsa. 

“So! Aufwiedersehen, little girl.” 

“No — no!” screamed the little one, in her childish 
treble, running with outstretched arms in pursuit. 
Stanford whirled about and saved her a bruised 
nose, as she tripped on the gravel and headed down- 
wards. Catching her to his breast, he caressed the 
little tow head nestling against his cheek, as the child 
flung her arms about his neck in close embrace. A 
tender smile lit up his face, and he stood a moment 
as if lost in reverie. With a preoccupied expression 
Muriel drew back from the rose-blooms, and de- 
scended to the music-room. When she threw open 


io8 ‘^3IISS TRAUMEREr^ 

the doors he was gone, and Mariechen was sniffing 
audibly, her head buried in the scanty folds of Elsa’s 
skirt. All verbal attempts failing to pacify the child, 
Muriel resorted to stratagem, by suddenly winding 
a long blue ribbon about Elsa. In self-interest Marie- 
chen whirled about and demurely stood still to have 
her arms bound close to her body in like manner. 

“So I must appeal to your vanity to win you over, 
little lady?” Muriel shook her finger in mock re- 
proval. Mariechen blinked away the tears and 
smiled sheepishly. 

“Is it a bargain, coquette? We are friends?” No 
resistance being offered, she stooped and kissed the 
child affectionately on both cheeks. “The very spots 
which his lips touched!” Muriel remembered, with 
a rush of blood to her face. She arose almost 
brusquely, and, with a hasty farewell, started for the 
music-room. 

“What am I coming to!” she reflected, feeling the 
beatings of her heart. “This is utter nonsense!” 
She wrinkled her brow into a frown of determination, 
began to hum aimlessly, and was astonished to find 
herself lapsing into Schumann’s lovely song, “Du 
meine Seele, Du meine Herzen.” 

She raised the lid of her piano with a bang and 
plunged recklessly into the introduction of the Liszt 
concerto. Nevertheless, an indefinable memory 
seemed to keep warm the region of her heart, and 
spread, like a lingering caress, to her throat and 
brow; and when she caught herself at intervals dwell- 
ing with admiration on Stanford’s unfolding charac- 


‘ ^MISS TRAUMEREI " 


109 


ter, she frightened herself back to mental concentra- 
tion on her work by picturing the horrors of a fiasco 
in the afternoon lesson. 

It seemed two hours, instead of one, before Gret- 
chen summoned her to breakfast under the plum- 
trees. With a vague sentiment that she had some- 
thing to resist, Muriel preserved an easy repose 
throughout the meal, saying little and listening to 
Stanford’s animated account of a rapid walk amongst 
the old haunts in the park. 

In remembrance of an early-learned duty, after 
breakfast he picked up the daily paper and read 
aloud the most interesting bits of news. Muriel 
lounged back, forgetful of her nervousness about 
the lesson, and listened in luxurious indolence while 
the sun line crept nearer and nearer the table. A 
paragraph referring to Liszt brought her to a reali- 
zation of the hour. 

“Oh!” she ejaculated, with a start; and instantly 
the benumbing fear which always accompanied her 
to a performance at the Royal Gardens, possessed 
her every nerve. “The concerto ! Excuse me, 
please.” 

“What is there so dreadful about those lessons?” 
queried Frau von Berwitz. 

“One’s self, sometimes,” laughed Muriel, retreat- 
ing without further parley. 


CHAPTER XII. 

“What a life!” sighed Muriel, after two consecu- 
tive hours’ practice. “I recover only to work again, 
and so on throughout the day, until those days be- 
come weeks, months, years, a lifetime! How must 
it feel to sleep long, to lie in a hammock without a 
care, to drift aimlessly through an existence. That’s 
it exactly, ‘an existence,’ not life! We prefer ours, 
don’t we, dear heart?” and Muriel rested her moist 
cheek lovingly on the silent piano, as if it, too, un- 
derstood. “No! Rather the delight which we only 
can know. It is worth all the back-aches in Chris- 
tendom.” Straightening herself laboriously, Muriel 
sought the outer air, and, with the rapidity peculiar to 
one of her temperament, regained her wonted strength 
and buoyancy after a few turns in the long walk. 

Her thoughts had gone a-calling with Frau von 
Berwitz and Stanford, when she tripped restlessly 
down the steps to the lower terrace, and came face 
to face with her young countryman, who was quietly 
reading a paper-covered volume in the shade of a 
sturdy young tree. 

“I beg pardon,” she said in surprise, and stopping 
short she turned to retreat. “I thought you had 
gone with Tante Anna to make some visits.” 

“We have postponed them. Fraulein Panzer sent 
a note as we were leaving, to say that she and the 
Countess would be here before noon.” 


<^MISS TRAUMEREI 


“Then I will not!” observed Muriel emphatically 
to herself, pondering on the scheme meant to entrap 
her. “There is a law in this household as to the dis- 
position of callers during practice hours.” 

“Pray, don’t go! I haven’t a monopoly of this 
terrace,” continued Stanford. 

“But you are reading — and — I am walking.” Mu- 
riel smiled brilliantly, every trace of weariness in her 
expression gone, and moved on towards the stairs. 

“What is that?” queried Stanford, listening, with an 
evident disposition to detain her. 

The regular tramp, tramp, tramp of many feet filled 
the air. It grew louder, and so near that Stanford 
glanced questioningly towards the back street. 

“Yes, they sometimes come this way,” said Muriel, 
and she walked with him to the iron railing and 
leaned over. At that instant there came into the 
street from the first turn at the left, an officer on a 
handsome bay charger, followed by a solid body of 
soldiers, with glittering bayonets and helmets. 

“The troops returning from target practice at the 
Ettersberg,” she added. A peculiar light flashed from 
her eye and she quickly averted her face. “Count 
von Hohenfels told me last night that they were to 
leave the barracks at six o’clock this morning. Poor 
man,” — she was closely eyeing the soldiers, — “how 
he does dislike military life! The discipline is, un- 
doubtedly, wholesome for one of his temperament, 
but his heart and thoughts are engaged elsewhere.” 

Stanford gave her a curious sideward glance, which 
she did not see ; but as she spoke quite indifferently, 


I 12 


^^MISS TRAUMEREI 


he transferred his scrutiny to the superb-looking regi- 
mental band, whose burnished horns were ordered 
into requisition as they came under the garden wall. 

Almost deafening was the sudden blare of brass; 
then the inspiring music of a well-played military 
march slowly receded. The ranks followed with 
pomp and dazzling glitter. The three officers of 
the Tiefurt party were recognized in turn, though 
only Count von Hohenfels lifted his eyes as he ap- 
proached the terrace wall. Above him stood the 
woman he loved, and at her side her handsome, stal- 
wart young countryman. He smiled a response to 
their friendly greeting, as a suffocating sensation 
crept into his breast, and blackness descended like a 
veil between his eyes and the bright sunlight. 

“He makes a fine-looking officer,” observed Stan- 
ford, with a motion at Hohenfels. 

“Very,” said Muriel, still watching him. “He 
once told me that he invariably pulled on his uniform 
with a bad grace, as being the outward semblance 
of war, a thing which he abhors as a relic of bar- 
barism and wholly unworthy our nineteenth-century 
enlightenment.” 

“True,” said Stanford, with the indifferent air of a 
thinking man enjoying his vacation too much to 
enter into protracted discussion; “if a thing isn’t 
right, it’s wrong. Courts decide the question for 
individuals, why shouldn’t representatives of all na- 
tions meet in conclave; in other words, form an 
international court to settle disputes arising between 
countries?” 


‘ ^MISS TRAUMEREI 1 1 3 

“They will, some day, if more of our young men 
will give themselves up to serious thought. The 
future of our country is dependent upon its young 
men!” exclaimed Muriel, feeling that she had not said 
a very original thing, yet unable to repress a certain 
patriotic enthusiasm, which a growing acquaintance 
with Stanford’s manner of thought had revived. 

“Is ‘our country’ Germany or America?” 

Muriel turned sharply. She could see nothing in 
this attempt at facetiousness beyond a disinclination 
for serious conversation with a woman. They were 
both lounging on the iron baluster, and he was watch- 
ing her with a mysterious twinkle in his eye. 

“America,” she said, and looked back at the last 
soldiers vacating the street. “If I am a good Ger- 
man, I am a still better American.” 

“When in foreign lands, possibly?” 

“By no means,” affirmed Muriel stoutly; “I love 
my home. I would be there now, were it not for 
the Master. I feel as if I must make the most of 
the present opportunity, for he is a very old man.” 

“So America will profit by the result after all?” 

“I suppose all earnest workers do some good, no 
matter how humble their attainments,” said Muriel 
modestly; “but I don’t mean to use my music in a 
professional sense. I dream of a time when routine 
in my art will have strengthened me to take my daily 
recreation in the pursuance of other studies. As yet, 
music masters me, and I succumb to sheer idleness 
when I get up from the piano.” 

“Then, in time, you will have to find a relief from 


II4 


‘ ^MISS TRA U ME RE I 


‘recreation/ as I am doing now/’ said Stanford with 
a genial smile, which made Muriel again think that 
perhaps she had, after all, misinterpreted his motive 
for avoiding serious conversation with her. With a 
plausible excuse for lingering on the terrace, she had 
willingly ignored the curious eyes across the street for 
a few enjoyable moments, but the sudden appearance 
of Fraulein Panzer and the Countess von Hohenfels, 
coming arm in arm down the slope from the palace, 
warned her to withdraw. 

“Complete relaxation,” continued Stanford, who 
had not seen them, as he accompanied her towards the 
garden, “is the best cure for an overworked brain. 
This is my first vacation in three years. See how I 
pass it!” He laughingly indicated the book in his 
hand — one of the latest ephemeral novels. “As a rule 
I have neither time nor inclination for such things, 
but I have concluded to free my mind absolutely of 
business and ‘recreation’ worries, and be lazy awhile, 
as an experiment!” 

Muriel thought she knew what he meant by ‘recre- 
ation’ worries. Frau von Berwitz had referred to 
his political activity, and from what Muriel herself 
had seen, she invested him with the loftiest ideals and 
the noblest endeavors in carrying them out. What 
higher aim in life could a man have? Especially in 
America, where, it seemed to her, men were ruled by 
party spirit and the prospect of personal gain rather 
than by a desire to protect the united interests of 
the land. Stanford took on the outlines of a hero 
in her eyes as she pictured him denouncing corrup- 


^‘MISS TRAUMEREI 


115 

tion and demanding’ absolute honesty in public of- 
fices. She foresaw the day when men would no 
longer refuse to associate their names with politics 
for fear of the resulting stigma; and at the head of 
this reformation stood Stanford. She wondered if 
there were other; in America as brave and able as he. 
Certainly she had known no other like him. Those 
whom she had met abroad seemed either indifferent 
to the national good or lacking the courage of their 
convictions. Workers, not grumblers, were needed. 

Muriel was beginning to get so much inspiration 
out of Stanford’s society and her own curiosity about 
him, that the nearing click, click, click, click of two 
pairs of heels in the echoing street fell untimely on 
her ears. 

‘Tt is my hour for rest,” she said, halting re- 
luctantly on the ascending steps. 

“Then you do rest sometimes?” Stanford gave her 
an incredulous smile, as he forebore to follow. 

“Always — the day of a lesson — for an hour or more 
before dinner. Pianists, as a rule, don’t practice at 
all the day of a public appearance, and this is much 
more trying, I assure you,” added Muriel, with a 
nervous shrug of the shoulders; “but — my playing 
to-day was rather unexpected, and — I didn’t feel quite 
— ‘in finger,’ as the Master sometimes says. Auf- 
wiedersehen!” 

He was still looking after her as she turned away, 
as if he were not quite ready to terminate the inter- 
view. It was the first frank, trustful glance — in 
which there is no reserve — of a friend. In the in- 


^‘MISS TRAUMEREI 


1 16 

timacy of life in a united household, it had taken little 
more than twenty-four hours to dissipate the newness 
and formality of early acquaintance. 

To Muriel the last memory of his blond head, as 
he bared it for a sunbath, was as that of one out of the 
“long ago,” who had reappeared after having dropped 
entirely away from her life. “Of course he didn’t 
mean it! But I should really like to know what he 
thinks,” she was saying to herself at the entrance to 
the Court. “It was my own freaky imagination. I 
must have a vacation soon, when more of the pupils 
are in, or I shall be a wreck. So, good-by. Resent- 
ment! Ah, Gretchen! Should any one inquire for 
me, say I play this afternoon at Liszt’s, and am sleep- 
ing.” 


CHAPTER XIIL 

It had been a busy day up at the great, factory-like 
barracks on the hill. The troops were undergoing 
the annual extra drill which precedes the autumn 
manoeuvres. The few unmarried officers whose in- 
comes enabled them to habitually assemble at the 
mid-day table d’hote in the “Hotel zum Erbprinzen,” 
had been compelled to take soldier’s fare in the mess- 
room. All the afternoon a cloud of dust hung over 
the vast exercise ground, as bugle-calls and stern 
commands arose in obligato above the dull thunder 
of many descending feet. Hohenfels led his men 
through their evolutions with a gusto that astonished 
them. He was painfully in earnest, had they but known 
it. The advent of Stanford in the household of Frau 
von Berwitz had suddenly developed in the Count 
a combativeness which his long military training had 
failed to incite. Moreover, under the penetrating rays 
of a scorching sun, the physical discomfort of thickly- 
padded shoulders and a heavy helmet intensified his 
irritability. 

The army of the enemy stood before his mind’s eye 
concentrated in the person of Stanford; and ere he 
gave order to break ranks, the American had fallen a 
thousand times under his fierce onslaught. 

Hohenfels took abrupt leave of his comrades and 
hurried diagonally across a corner of the parade 

1 17 


^ ^MISS TRA UMEREI 


1 18 

ground to the verdurous arch shading the way to the 
old stone bridge by the palace. After her first meet- 
ing with Muriel, his mother had given him her full 
sanction to their union. What, then, but his own 
cowardly heart prevented his asking her to become 
his wife? The memory of opportunities lost within 
the twenty-four hours brought an angry flush to his 
face, and all the more because of the newly-arisen 
peril menacing his suit. 

Why had he submitted to Muriel’s elusive im- 
pulses? As they ante-dated the arrival of Stanford, 
an utter stranger to her, what did they signify? Was 
it a woman’s way in such a crisis ; and did she wish to 
be won by storm? Did she, then, lay more stress on 
his manner of offering himself than on the sincerity 
of the act itself? 

Was his ignorance of feminine foibles to mar his 
future happiness. Did not a true woman value the 
first pure love of a man? Could she not accept him, 
unsophisticated as she found him, or would she have 
him as artful as “Tannhauser” in the “Venusberg”? 
If Muriel cared even the half for him that he did for 
her, why couldn’t she say so without reserve? And 
supposing she did not. He had had unshaken faith 
in the ultimate winning power of his all-absorbing 
love. Now, with imprecations on Stanford, he ques- 
tioned it. 

The worldly advantages of wealth and social rank, 
weighing in his favor, had never occurred to Hohen- 
fels as a possible temptation to Muriel, for he was one 
of those who exalt talent, such as hers, above a mere 


^'iMlSS TRAtJMEREr^ 119 

empty title ; and as for riches, she had an abundance. 
Therefore, he resolved upon a bold stroke to still the 
tortures of suspense. Could he but reach Liszt’s by 
the close of the lesson, he would ask Muriel for a 
stroll in the park. It was his only chance to inter- 
view her, unattended, before the half-past seven 
o’clock supper to which Frau von Berwitz had bid- 
den him with his! mother and Fraulein Panzer. 
Scharwenka was to be there also, and, of course, the 
ubiquitous Stanford. 

The severe discipline to which mind and body had 
been subjected fortified him as he started down the 
hill. He felt as if he could overthrow mountains in 
his boundless strength. For a moment only he halted 
on the old bridge to listen to the falling water. He 
loved its music; it rested his fevered brain. 

He hastened onward. A soft breeze was sweeping 
over the lowlands. It cooled his flushed cheeks and 
touched the leafy boughs overhanging the serpentine 
way through the open park. The moving shadows 
about his feet, it now occurred to him with despair, 
reflected the inner workings of his heart. His spirit 
faltered with each step which brought him nearer the 
Royal Gardens. Had he hearkened too long to the 
Ilm? Was the curse of the Lorelei in its entrancing 
song? Did his courage belong to the hill alone? 
Doubts and fears assailed him like so many invisible 
demons tugging at the cords tightened about his 
heart. He felt that he would rather lead Bemsdorf’s 
easy-minded, phlegmatic existence than to purchase 
heavenly raptures at such a price. 


120 


^<MISS TRAUMEREI^’^ 


At the, rustic gate a great fear overcame him. How 
could his asinine manner secure him else than a re- 
fusal? “Be a man!” he muttered between his teeth; 
and aware of curious eyes watching him from the 
house, he strode resolutely up the walk. Some pupils 
had just straggled out into the door-yard. Hohen- 
fels gave the military salute, and inquired for Miss 
Holme. 

“She is still above,” said one of them, pointing at 
the upper windows. 

Hohenfels sprang upon the stoop and pulled the 
bell. Other pupils were coming out. He stood aside 
to let them pass, and because of his conspicuous uni- 
form, he stepped into the dim vestibule, and ran face 
to face with a man who had likewise an evident pur- 
pose in loitering there. It was Stanford. 

“Good afternoon. Count.” He had come forward 
and proffered his hand. Hohenfels accepted it and 
made a mighty effort not to think, in order to be per- 
fectly conventional. 

“Good afternoon,” he responded, in a dull tone. 
Instinctively he drew back into deeper shadow. 

“You are late for the lesson.” 

“Yes . That is — I am not a pupil. I some- 
times come to — to ” 

“You are seeking the young Fraulein, are you not, 
Herr Lieutenant?” inquired the housekeeper, appear- 
ing in the kitchen door. “She has not yet come 
down.” 

“Yes, she has, Frau Pauline.” 

Following the tones of her voice around the final 


^‘MISS TRAUMEREI 


121 


turn in the descent, Muriel stopped on the open 
threshold at the foot of the stairway. She was evi- 
dently very nervous. Her cheeks were flaming with 
color, and her restless eyes seemed to emit fiery darts 
from their darkening depths. It was apparent to the 
two young men that she was not thinking of them. 

“You have just played?” said Stanford, after an 
interchange of greetings. 

“My concerto had the last place,” she answered, 
with a pathetic little smile. 

Stanford divined the rest. He had amused himself, 
back in the shadow, studying the pupils as they came 
down the stairs. They were much of a type — pale, 
earnest youths and maidens with eyes which were 
roving and intelligent in speaking, and dreamy or 
introspective in repose; abnormally sensitive, and 
pursuing life at a nervous tension which unfitted 
them for associations outside their own mental work- 
shops. He pictured to himself Muriel waiting 
throughout the long lesson in a spiritual atmosphere 
created by these high-strung natures and intensified 
by the magnetic intellectuality of Franz Liszt, waiting 
to submit herself as the objective point of rigid dis- 
cipline in all that critical throng; and he ceased won- 
dering at her pallor and quiet, preoccupied expression 
during dinner, and, later, at three o’clock “coffee” in 
the summer house. 

Out of regard to her obvious desire for solitude, he 
had desisted from offering his escort to Liszt’s; but 
when Frau von Berwitz reminded her that after the 
lesson she must call on the Countess, he had asked 


122 ^^MISS TRAUMEREr' 

Muriel if he might not join her at the Royal Gardens 
and go with her. In view of her unqualified assent, 
he suspected that the coming of Hohenfels was 
equally a surprise to her. Therefore, as he had no 
desire to withdraw, courtesy certainly did not demand 
it of him ; and, for the rest — the Count would doubt- 
less survive it. 

From the transformation in Muriel’s countenance, 
Stanford surmised something of her success; but not 
all. Liszt had encouraged her as never before, and 
those of the pupils who ever acknowledged anything 
agreeable of a colleague went away pronouncing her 
performance the greatest thus far of the season. 
Even she herself was faintly surprised at her display 
of unknown power. However, her strength seemed 
to go with the last note of the concerto. In her be- 
wilderment at the measure of praise bestowed, she re- 
membered Stanford’s promise to await her below. 
Buoyed up by a momentary consciousness of tri- 
umph, she hastened to depart; but Liszt had not fin- 
ished expressing pleasure at her interpretation of his 
concerto. He slowly accompanied her to the head of 
the stairs, and stood there, smiling to call, “Aufwie- 
dersehen.” 

The unexpected appearance and all too plain con- 
fusion of Hohenfels gave her an uncomfortable sen- 
sation. An effort was required to overcome the awk- 
ward situation. She stood irresolutely in the door- 
way, quite ready to prolong the conversation. 

“Herr Scharwenka, who dined here,” she said, “had 
gone to the city with some of the gentlemen. As I 


^^MISS TRAUMEREI 


123 


had studied the concerto with him, I told the Master 
I knew he would play the orchestral part at the sec- 
ond piano, if I waited. He came late, and is now in 
the salon.” 

Muriel stood aside as some one started down 
the stairs. It was Rivington, whom she stopped to 
introduce to the others. 

“I am sorry to have been the cause of your not 
playing,” she said in English. “The Master said he 
could not stand more than one of his concertos in an 
afternoon. Whether he meant it,” she continued, with 
an amused laugh, “I don’t know; but he promised 
he would hear you play the ‘A major’ next 
lesson.” 

“I have to thank you for much,” said Rivington, 
who had exhausted his encomiums on her playing, 
in the salon. 

Muriel raised her hand in protest, and then said 
quietly to Hohenfels, as they all passed into the door- 
yard: “You are just in time to go with us to call on 
your mother.” 

“Will you not come in this evening informally?” 
she added in English to Rivington, who had evinced 
considerable timidity, during the lesson, about ap- 
proaching his fellow-students. She felt sorry for the 
boy in his loneliness, and considered it a duty to give 
her young countryman, as far as practicable, the bene- 
fit of her experience. “I live at Strasse, number 

ten, one flight up. Mr. Stanford has promised to 
sing, and — I hope Count von Hohenfels will play for 
US?” 


124 


^‘MISS TRAUMEREI 


Hohenfels avowed, in very broken, though fluent 
English, his readiness to do anything Miss Holme 
desired. 

It was a happy thought of Muriel’s to continue con- 
versation in her mother tongue, as the three bade 
Rivington “Aufwiedersehen” and started for the park ; 
for the mercurial Hohenfels found speedly relief from 
his disappointment in the construction of his English 
sentences, and still further in the fact that she firmly 
refused to let Stanford carry her music-roll. And Ho- 
henfels staid with his mother, when Muriel, after a 
formal call, went home on the plea of needing rest. 
She had forgotten her plea, however, when they 
reached the old rose-garden, and she sat talking with 
Stanford on the lower terrace, until twilight shadows 
crept around them. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

The genial wit and brilliant conversational gifts of 
the Berlin pianist and composer gave the final touch 
of success to Frau von Berwitz’s supper party. Un- 
der the sway of his magnetic personality selfish con- 
siderations were forgotten. Nor did they again 
spring up to disturb the serenity of the little com- 
pany until after Herr Scharwenka’s early departure 
for the Russischer Hof to join a party of Lisztianer, 
as the pupils of the old Master were called in 
Weimar. 

Rivington came in, and immediately Fraulein 
Panzer began to speak of Liszt. Everywhere in the 
little capital his name was used as a wedge to open 
conversation with a new-comer. Already the lad had 
begun to think of the Weimaraner as of two factions 
— those who knew Liszt and those who did not. 
The former related reminiscences of him ; and the lat- 
ter, the freshest gossip of the Royal Gardens. Frau- 
lein Panzer was doing both. She had known the 
Master for five-and-thirty years, and now reverted 
to their first meeting. 

Muriel had begun to feel bored; she had heard the 
story until she knew every word of it by heart. She 
was in a mood for enjoyment, and so determined to 
frustrate the narrator. 

Hohenfels was listening to Fraulein Panzer with 
an attentive, downcast expression. “Poor fellow,” 

125 


126 


‘ ‘AJ/SS TRA UMEREI 


thought Muriel, with a single throb of compassion; 
and she forthwith made a cat’s-paw of him in her 
impatience to hear Stanford sing. 

“Count,” she said in an undertone, “will you play 
something now?” 

“Certainly,” he cried, springing up with alertness 
and totally confusing his astonished godmother. 

“I think we will go to the music-room,” said Mu- 
riel, rising also. “Count von Hohenfels, who has 
consented to play, is partial to the other piano. 
Please remember your songs, Mr. Stanford.” 

The latter was making a martyr of himself by sup- 
porting Frau von Berwitz in a conversation with the 
deaf Countess. Although Muriel thought that he 
might have been more attentive to her, she none the 
less admired his devotion to the elderly ladies. His 
kindness to her pet “Mime,” however, would have 
atoned for more serious shortcomings. With self- 
ish feline instinct the cat had claimed and rebelliously 
maintained a position upon Stanford’s knees. 

“Come, Mimechen,” he said in English, tossing the 
fluffy black creature up to his shoulder, “don’t despise 
the Caucasian. You see, ladies, he has no race 
prejudice.” 

They all found it pleasanter in the music-room. 
The broad, open doorway gave them the additional 
enjoyment of the night. They gathered there to 
watch the distant stars twinkling in the interspaces 
of the leafy framework, and to inhale the sweetness 
of the June roses. A tall lamp stood on the table by 
the piano, and a thick red shade focused the tinted 


^‘MISS TRAUMEREl 


27 


light cn the keyboard. The room was full of shadow; 
the profiles of the silent listeners showed darkly to 
Count von Hohenfels, as he let his fingers wander 
dreamily over the keys. 

The time seemed made for rhapsodizing. It was a 
night such as Thuringia sometimes cedes to the brains 
and hearts of her lover-poets. It spoke its mystic 
spell to the player in the first mellow-toned response 
of the vibrating wires. The day and its trials were 
gone. His spirit had grown light with hope, and 
only the sympathetic appeal in his touch gave echo 
to his recent emotions. The language whose utter- 
ance was denied to his lips, sought expression through 
the medium of his fingers, and he knew that Muriel 
alone would understand him. 

Hohenfels was fond of extemporizing, and he had 
found amusement in Muriel’s verbal interpretation 
of his ideas thus expressed. This form of communi- 
cation had, the previous summer, become their favor- 
ite pastime. Indeed, aided by her knowledge of his 
temperament and trend of thought, she had become 
so proficient that he, in his ignorance of woman’s 
wit, invested her. with miraculous powers. 

“I cannot grasp it!” he exclaimed one day, after 
she had repeated to him what he believed to be the 
actual words of his thoughts. “How do you do it?” 

“I do not know.” 

“Play for me!” he cried, springing up from the 
piano; I too will try it.” 

“No,” said Muriel, “I do not improvise well. I 
have little or no creative power in music. Mine is 


28 


^^MISS TRAUMEREI 


solely interpretative. Your gift is inborn. Let us 
continue as we have begun.” 

But her elucidations were given only when alone 
with him in the music-room. In truth she approved 
of pianoforte improvisations for chosen occasions 
only. She had been too often bored by the hour- 
long impromptu fantasies of pianists much more 
distinguished than the Count — professional men of 
genius, who gave such reminiscent settings to oc- 
casional inspired measures that the whole was simply 
an infliction. Liszt was the only improvisator she had 
ever heard with pleasure in an assembly after passing 
her novitiate, and that pleaure she ascribed in part to 
his tactful brevity. Hohenfels, on the contrary, lov- 
ing his piano blindly, made no note of time Muriel 
therefore heard his preluding with apprehension. 

“What will you play. Count?” she asked, hoping 
that he would change his purpose out of considera- 
tion for the musical culture of his guests. 

He looked at her an instant without speaking. “A 
drama,” he repeated in a low voice. 

“A what?” called Fraulein Panzer, sharply, raising 
her eyeglasses to scrutinize the face of her embar- 
rassed godson. “Ifs the wine,” she added in a jocu- 
lar way, and turned aside to study the stars. 

“No, Tante Clara! Before Heaven, no! A veritable 
drama in tone.” 

“From whom?” 

“From God or the Devil! I wish I knew which,” 
he muttered, as he let his fingers again wander over 
the keys. “I don’t know,” he said aloud. 


^^MISS TRAUMEREI*^ 


129 


“You are too modest, Fritz. Claim it openly. 
He composes exceedingly well,” she said, lowering 
her voice. “Does he not. Miss Holme?” 

“Very,” replied Muriel, trying to conceal her dis- 
pleasure at Hohenfels’ decision. He was eyeing her 
uneasily, but her expression was lost to him in the 
gloom. 

The dialogue had aroused the curiosity of the group 
at the door. With misgivings as to his purpose, 
Muriel anxiously noted the intentness with which 
they listened to the first notes of Hohenfels’ tonal 
“drama” floating out on the quiet night. Only a 
few measures were needed to confirm her fears. His 
recital was a history of their acquaintance, and so 
vividly expressed that none could fail to understand. 
Once she detected a significant look passing be- 
tween Fraulein Panzer and Frau von Berwitz; and, 
later on, Rivington raised his questioning eyes to her 
face. 

Muriel was mortified at her old friend’s lack of 
delicacy in thus openly parading his feelings. He 
began to recall strains from favorite compositions 
with which they had beguiled the previous summer, 
whilst the underflow of passionate emotion grew even 
wilder and bolder, threatening, at last, to break its 
bonds and pour triumt^hantly forth. 

Again the spell of the music spoke to the per- 
turbed spirit of the player, and led him into such a 
maze of soulful harmonies that, carried beyond him- 
self, he abandoned his fancy to the eloquence of his 
overmastering love. It found reflection' in his face 


130 ‘ ^MISS TRA UMEREI 

and held the listeners in breathless expectation of a 
stirring climax. Muriel knew better, and waited with 
a throbbing heart for a brief diminuendo and pause. 

Then with a single phrase — the inevitable question, 
so full of beseeching tenderness — he gazed steadily at 
Muriel a moment and rose from the piano. A gen- 
eral look of surprise followed him. 

“Come, Fritz, this is too abrupt,” exclaimed Frau- 
lein Panzer, who was the first to recover herself. 
Like the others, having merely comprehended the 
general drift of his improvisation, she did not suffi- 
ciently appreciate the unhappy position of Muriel, 
who had with each moment grown more painfully 
self-conscious. Fraulein Panzer, indeed, had been 
not a little amused by the incident, as something novel 
and quite clear to herself only. As it occurred to 
her that timely assistance might be desirable, she 
added slyly: “Give the satisfactory solution of 
your harmonies.” 

“Perhaps Miss Holme will do that?” responded 
Hohenfels, rising. 

For the moment Muriel was too stunned by his 
audacity to speak. Pride, however, over-ruled her 
outraged sensibilities. Though Hohenfels had be- 
haved foolishly, he was an old and faithful friend, 
and her pending answer would determine their future 
relations. As a woman of tact she could not do 
else than make light of so trying a situation. What- 
ever the facts of the case, the witnesses would regard 
his attitude as one of weak sentimentality; and so 
would he with a return of reason. However, in that 


^^MTSS TRAUMEREV' 131 

brief interval of thought Muriel had laid more stress 
on the manner than on the wording of her re- 
ply. 

“I could not do that better,” she began, with an 
assumption of merriment, rising briskly to her feet, 
‘•than by playing Mr. Stanfords accompani- 
ments.” 

She stopped aghast at the insinuation in her state- 
ment. “I have done enough solo work for one day,” 
she added so hastily that none could mistake her own 
interpretation of the words. 

That Hohenfels was wounded by the unintentional 
blow was natural. In her heart she felt it a deserved 
and wholesome lesson for him. However, she had 
a part to play until matters adjusted themselves, and 
she looked into his blanched face without a pang of 
regret. 

“I have memorized the Mephisto waltzes, if you 
care to take them to-night,” she said, indicating some 
sheet music on the piano, and resuming her usual 
tone with him. “Meister has promised to hear the 
first one the next time I play for him. Perhaps you 
can give me some new ideas after looking it, over. 
It is always a pleasure to hear Liszt praise an in- 
terpretation which differs from his own.” 

Muriel was but faintly conscious of what she said. 
Her only desire was to dispose of Hohenfels without 
further friction, and when she saw him, at last, 
quietly take a seat on the doorstep and turn his face 
to the stars, she looked round for Stanford. He had 
selected a volume from a collection which he had 


132 ^^MISS TRAUMEREr^ 

brought with him and placed it on the music- 
rest 

“It is very good of you to play for me,” he said; 
“I make a frightful bungle of my accompaniments.” 

“You should never have to play them to sing well,” 
she added, as she read the composer’s name on the 
cover of the book with a brightening countenance. 

“Then you like Schubert?” He spoke softly, as 
his glance met her uplifted eyes. 

“He satisfies me as no other writer of pure song 
who has ever lived.” 

“He is my favorite also. What shall it be?” He 
leaned over her to open the book. 

“Wait!” exclaimed Muriel, taking it from him. 
“I have a fancy to see where it will fall open. Then 
I shall know what you have been singing to yourself.” 
Balancing the bound edge on the palm of her hand, 
she watched the pages flutter apart and stop at “Am 
Meer.” 

“It was my choice, too!” cried Muriel, forgetting 
the listening group at the door in her elation at hav- 
ing an unvoiced wish come true. 

While putting the book into place, she was momen- 
tarily conscious of Hohenfels’ penetrating glance, 
without being disturbed by it. She was thinking of 
“Am Meer.” “What if he does not sing well, or is 
only a weak lyric tenor? I would rather never hear 
him! It would be so horribly out of keeping with 
the man himself.” 

Muriel felt her cheeks burning. “They will think 
it the color from the shade,” she reassured herself. 


<^MISS TRAUMEREI 


33 


I do hope I shall not be disappointed. I don’t look 
for a great artistic treat from an amateur; only let 
it be in accord with his intelligence and nobility of 
character.” What she did expect she hardly knew. 
A vague unrest had seized her. She was in sudden 
terror of having an ideal spoiled. Surely, though, 
Stanford was not the man to make himself ridiculous 
by an ignoble exhibition of weak vanity. The thought 
gave her comfort. “Of course he won’t!” she kept 
repeating to herself. “Of course he won’t! But 
why should I work myself up so about Mr. Stan- 
ford?” Muriel was somewhat abashed by the re- 
flection. “My deplorable nervousness again!” 

The sensuous charm of her excellent performance 
in the lesson, was still in the tips of Muriel’s fingers, 
as they sought the introductory chords with that 
tender caress which true pianists intuitively give 
those harmonies most in touch with their own nature. 
It was like a sympathetic, spoken appeal to .Stanford. 
He gave her a quick look of response, but she was in- 
tent upon the keyboard, and when she glanced up at 
him, as a signal for concerted action, he had receded 
a step and was gazing beyond the silent listeners into 
the night. 

Music is an intoxicant for certain temperaments. 
After the first measures of “Am Meer” Muriel was 
conscious only of an ecstatic thrill, which ravished 
her senses and dispelled doubts, fears and even rea- 
son. Swayed by the power of the singer, her fingers 
moved over the keys as in a dream. A rich, sonor- 
ous voice, breathed forth so naturally as to conceal 


134 


* ^MISS TRA UMEREI 


the art which guided it, was singing lines beloved and 
already engraved upon her memory: 

Das Meer erglinzte weit hinaus 
Im letzten Abendscheine, 

Wir sassen am einsamen Fischerhaus, 

Wir sasfcen stumm und alleine. 

The absolute sweetness and purity of intonation in 
that dying cadence: 

Wir sassen stumm und alleine, 

melted into Muriel’s heart The music of her own 
fingers fell as tenderly on the ear. Voice and piano 
blended as one. With the words 

DerNebel stieg, das Wasser schwoll, 

Die Mowe flog hin und wieder 

a dramatic fibre vibrated in the swelling notes of the 
singer. Muriel’s whole consciousness seemed up- 
lifted in the crescendo of the music ; her body swa3^ed 
lightly to the rhythm, and when the lines sank into 
quieter measure: 

• Aus deinen Augen liebevoll 

Fielen die Thriinen nieder, 

real tears crowded into her eyes. She played on, un- 
mindful of the blurred page before her. The notes 
were rising from her heart in response to each utter- 
ance of the singer. 

Muriel was already in that realm of fancy where 
she spent half her waking hours and found her tru- 
est happiness. Had it ever before revealed to her 
such bliss, such transport? Was not the present a 
reality? Did not the mists surround them? Was 
not that the North Sea breaking in foaming billows on 
the broad sands at their feet, the low eaves of the 


‘‘MISS TRAUMEREV* • 135 

fisher’s hut above them, limitless space about them, 
and they two alone in that vast universe. He was at 
her side ; she could feel his presence, hear his inspired 
voice. Listen! it is no dream. These are his words: 

Ich sah sie fallen auf deine Hand, 

Und bin auf’s knie gesunken ; 

Ich hab’ sie aus deiner weissen Hand, 

Die Thranen fort getrunken. 

Seit jener Stunde verzehrt sich mein Leib, 

Die Seele stirbt von Sehnen ; 

Mich hat das ungluckselg’e Weib, 

Vergiftet mit ihren Thranen. 

Muriel’s heart was ready to break with the sweet 
sadness of that lingering, softly-dying strain. A great 
sob welled up in her throat, and then the murmuring 
accompaniment, too, was gone. A deathlike stillness 
oppressed her. She opened her eyes with a start. 
They were moist, and she could dimly discern the 
far-reaching shadows beyond the mellow light thrown 
over the white keys of her piano. Suddenly it all 
came back to her where she was, -and that her ac- 
quaintance of two days, Tante Anna’s foster son 
Carl, was standing at her side, and had been singing. 
And then a great warmth enveloped her and made her 
brain reel. What was it? The fleeting magic of his 
song — or himself? Her heart answered with a rush 
of hot blood, “Both.” What madness! And yet — • 
why not? It must have been meant so from the be- 
ginning. Yes, it was her fate. It had been ordained 
thus, and she had nothing to do with it. She had 
not desired it. She had rebelled at his coming. And 
here he was at her side. What had he become in 


136 


‘ ‘MISS TRAUMEREI 


those thirty-six hours? Her world! Her all! For 
the instant she could think of nothing else! She 
loved — and how? The beating of her heart re- 
sounded in her ears; and as she strove to calm her- 
self, the ticking of the little clock on the wall was the 
only sound that broke the silence of the room. 

A sudden rush of maidenly shame possessed her. 
“No one must know,” she said tumultuously to her- 
self. “How horrible if they did!” Muriel threw her 
head proudly back, and slowly closed and opened her 
eyes in the effort to dry them without calling atten- 
tion to her emotion. As a pretext for not speaking, 
she turned to the index of songs and ran her finger 
down the list. She had missed it. She could not see 
distinctly, and began again. 

“What is it?” said Stanford, softly, with the tender- 
ness of Schubert’s inspired melody still in his voice. 

“The ‘Serenade,’ ” she murmured. She had to turn 
her face in profile to make him hear. His head was 
almost touching . hers, and she felt his penetrating 
glance. A tear still glistened on her eyelash. 

“He saw it,” she repeated helplessly to herself. To 
hide her confusion, she began a pianissimo modula- 
tion from C major to the key of the “Serenade” — D 
minor. “Perhaps he will only wonder what signifi- 
cance ‘Am Meer’ has had in my past life that it should 
call forth the tears. Certainly, he could not surmise 
anything from my manner.” 

“I defy any one to take me unawares now,” shs 
added, as a final support to herself. 

When she began the simple prelude to the “Ser^ 


<^MISS TRAUMEREI 


137 


nade,” the insidious charm in her first touch of the! 
white keys stole over her own senses like a celestial 
balm. The book on the music-rest screened the 
spell-bound group at the door. Not a soul had 
so much as stirred. A word would have been to 
them a sacrilege. Muriel thought of them no more. 
The red light behind her shoulder seemed flaming 
from her brain, and, as it grew brighter and brighter, 
she felt herself wafted into space on billowy rose- 
scented clouds. A thrilling presence, which she did 
not see, was near. Sweet, tender strains lured them on 
together; and then his voice, so mellow and free, that 
it seemed to penetrate and fill limitless space with its 
glory, rose above all like a benediction of love. 

A strange, deep sadness breathed through the song. 
Memory was travelling backward to America — her 
early home — and her mother. Her dear voice, now 
silent forever, had sung these self-same words. It was 
a translation into the English which had long since 
passed from Muriel’s mind. Had the dead past risen 
to sanctify her love as something sacred, a thing from 
above, which divine Providence had foreordained? 
“Thus it was intended and always shall be.” Her life, 
with its strivings and its sorrows, had been simply a 
preparation for this new, great joy just come to her. 
Everything else faded before it. The thought was suffi- 
cient answer to every question that might arise; and 
in the security of that belief she yielded to the pres- 
ent rapture, for that, too, like all things of this world, 
must end. 

She drank in his words until her brain seemed be- 


138 


‘ ^MISS TRA UMEREI 


numbed as with wine, and when the final tone died 
slowly, as a vapor vanishes in the heavens, she 
remembered only the impassioned appeal in that last 
line: 

And my heart for thee is yearning, 

Bid it, love, be still. 

It voiced in its concentrated intensity the lifelong, 
pent-up yearnings of a loving heart. Was it art — or 
was it real? Muriehs heart throbbed madly as she 
strove to reason; but the music had ceased; once 
more she opened her eyes to actual being. 

It all came back to her quickly enough — the large 
room, with its deep shadows where the listeners sat, 
and the screen of the friendly book which she had not 
once seen from the beginning. Nor had he, so it 
seemed, for the page had not been turned. The 
music had come from both their hearts; and, yes, 
she fancied she saw a tremor pass over Stanford 
where he stood, this time at her side, while his hand, 
which rested on the piano, certainly did shake percep- 
tibly. At his show of emotion, Muriel felt herself so 
uplifted in spirit that she was enabled to look 
up at him with that calm peace in her eyes which be- 
trays nothing that passes within. 

“Thank you,” she said, softly, and she gradually 
raised her voice that the others might hear. “I am 
glad to find that particular translation again. I was 
trying to recall it only the other day; but I had not 
heard it since my early childhood, and it had gone, 
all but the first few lines.” 

Stanford was regarding her with searching inten- 


*^MISS TRAUMEREV 


139 


sity, and as she spoke she observed the eloquence of 
his dilating pupils changing — fading, as if forced 
swiftly back out of sight in waves of lightening color 
until the last flame flickered — went out — and once 
more he wore merely the frank, kindly expression 
which seemed a reflection of the man’s great, sunny 
nature. 

“I will write them down for you,” he said, in a low, 
husky voice, so unlike that of the inspired singer 
who had held them entranced, that Fraulein Panzer’s 
quick ear remarked the change. 

“You have wearied your voice,” she said, with a 
sympathetic, maternal sort of interest. 

Stanford gave a peculiar smile, Muriel thought, 
and his voice was as Arm and as clear as a bell in his 
evasive reply: “I have not sung before since leaving 
America.” 

“Write the translation down for me,” she repeated 
to herself. “Every word of that song is inscribed on 
my heart!” 

Rivington had pushed his chair back to make room 
for Stanford, who advanced as if to join the group, and 
Muriel observed that it would give him a view of her 
profile as she sat at the piano. 

“No more music, then, to-night,” she reflected, 
with resignation, and she rose from the instrument. 
It was growing late for early-to-bed Weimar, and 
the guests prepared to go. Muriel followed them 
into the garden, for, as Gretchen had brought wraps 
and hats from the front of the house, they were to take 
the nearer way home by the rear exit. 


140 


^^MISS TRAUMEREI 


“Good-night,” said Hohenfels, in his best officer’s 
manner, but he held Muriel’s hand as in a last fare- 
well. 

“Good-night,” she answered, startled out of her- 
self. A wave of compassion for her lover-friend min- 
gled with the memory of her old regard for him. 
“Good-night,” she repeated, with the friendly intona- 
tion which he knew so well, and, looking up in the 
darkness with an animated smile, she gave him a 
warm, quick hand pressure and spoke again of the 
“Mephisto” waltz. 


CHAPTER XV. 


After their guests had reached the street, Frau von 
Berwitz and Muriel stood by the iron railing to call a 
final “good-night,” and to wait for Stanford, who had 
gone down to lock the door behind them. Rejoining 
the ladies on the terrace, he exclaimed impulsively: 

“It is not bedtime, is it, Xante Anna?” 

“Why no, my child, if you do not wish it. There!” 
The matron threw one arm about his neck and drew 
his head down to kiss him, with a loud smack, first on 
one cheek and then on the other. 

“And there! That, dear boy, is for those two songs. 
They went to my heart. Shall we sit here?” 

“Do you know, Mr. Stanford,” said Muriel mus- 
ingly, as the three sat down on some settles under the 
trees, “since hearing you, I have been wondering how 
you could have resisted the temptations to an operatic 
career.” 

“Possibly because they came too late,” replied Stan- 
ford, without a trace of regret at what might have 
been. “The debates in our college societies had fos- 
tered my taste for speechifying, and I did not begin 
the cultivation of my singing voice until after I grad- 
uated.” 

“But were you never tempted to make it your voca- 
tion in life?” 

“No — it was hardly a temptation; perhaps a mere 
pleasurable thought of what I might do, if I would. 


142 


‘ ^MISS TRA UMEREI 


I love to sing for — my friends and — myself, and I am 
sufficiently desirous of doing it well to give all the 
time I can to study and practice.” 

“I am surprised, though, that some enterprising 
impresario has not persuaded you,” said Muriel, ten- 
tatively. 

“I have had offers,” continued Stanford, “but not 
till I was already more deeply interested in other 
work.” 

“But only think of the mission of music to hu- 
manity — of the sermon in a song — when one is gifted 
with a voice,” persevered Muriel, inwardly delighted 
with his statements. 

“Very true; but while I might move some few 
hearts to better deeds by my music, I find more in- 
spiration in haranguing an audience. It is more ex- 
hilarating to watch a sea of faces change expression, 
sway to your will, and to feel that it is all so much to- 
wards the advancement of a cause which men of all 
time and every country have held first in their hearts ; 
and, then, afterwards — afterwards — they don’t treat 
one like a tenor.” 

“The women, you mean? I suppose there is no rea- 
son why a tenor should not have intellect,” said Mu- 
riel, creating a laugh by her seriousness; “but they 
certainly do not treat him as if he had one.” 

“It is precisely that which makes a manly man 
shrink from singing professionally,” interjected Stan- 
ford, warmly. “He too often feels the truth of your 
statement.” 

Muriel felt a benumbing chill creeping over her. 


‘ ^3nSS TRA UMEREI 


H3 

Though convinced that no one had read her sec- 
ret, still his last remark struck with pain to her 
heart. 

“There never is but one woman who can see all that 
is good in a man, and that one ought to be his wife,” 
she remarked to herself, philosophically. “The world 
seldom sees him through her eyes, but I believe she 
is happier when it may.” 

Again a warm flush spread to her temples, and 
dreams of conquest for him in her narrow circle in 
Weimar began to occupy her mind. Before all, he 
must meet the Master; and then be guided to the 
various haunts of the jovial Lisztianer. “He will 
think the more of me for it,” she thought, “and how 
it will unite our interests.” 

Her purpose found unexpected introduction 
through Frau von Berwitz. “Surely,” said the matron, 
nodding in the direction of the Court Gardens, “no 
tenor ever received the homage tendered by both 
men and women to our own Liszt.” 

“Do you know the Master?” Muriel asked Stanford, 
with sudden animation. 

“Not personally, though I once had some conver- 
sation with him,” he replied, with a reminiscent smile. 
“It was long ago, when I first came to Weimar. Liszt 
one day visited our school. He stopped me as I was 
passing him and asked my name. ‘Charles Roland 
Stanford,’ I said, looking him fearlessly in the face. 
I was a wee bit of a chap then — not over seven or 
eight — and he tall, straight, and at the zenith of his 
fame, 


144 ^^MISS TRAUMEREr* 

“‘Ah! a little Englishman/ he replied, patting my 
shoulder. 

“‘No, Meister; an American/ I said, loud enough 
to be heard all over the room. 

“ ‘And you have come so far over the great ocean?’ 
he exclaimed, opening his eyes very wide to impress 
me with the distance. 

“‘Yes, Meister. Papa brought me to Xante Anna 
von Berwitz because Mamma is dead.’ Don’t you re- 
call it, Xante Anna? 

“Well,” continued Stanford, “I remember he mut- 
tered ‘dear child,’ and let me go, with a pat on my 
head. Shortly after that he went to Rome, and when 
he returned, several years later, I was a big boy; but 
Xante Anna had me doff my hat to him, as to a mem- 
ber of the Grand Ducal family, when I passed him on 
the street.” 

“You should know him,” said Muriel. 

. “It would, certainly, be a great pleasure.” 

“Xo him, also,” she continued. “He would enjoy 
your singing.” 

“Oh! — do you think so?” said Stanford, with un- 
affected modesty. 

“Of course,” exclaimed Muriel, surprised into ex- 
pressing, in her tone, a higher estimate of his vocal 
powers than she might have voluntarily conceded. 
“You will be glad to have sung for him. He is so 
appreciative of merit ” 

“However crude.” 

“Exactly,” responded Muriel, appreciatively. “Your 
art redeems you from such an imputation, however. 


<^MISS TRAUMEREI 


145 


Now, seriously, would you like to meet him socially?” 

“I should be delighted,” exclaimed Stanford, with 
undisguised pleasure. 

“Then I will see him about it — to-morrow, if he is 
receiving,” she said, and she felt an impatient impulse 
to go at once to the Royal Gardens to secure the as- 
surance of his welcome there. The morrow seemed 
so far off. Then, when Stanford expressed thanks for 
the promised pleasure, her every nerve tingled with 
delight that he should be, in any sense, dependent on 
her. 

“I assure you, Carl,” observed Frau von Berwitz, 
who was evidently much gratified, “it is the only pos- 
sible way to meet him now. The old gentleman 
rarely goes anywhere, save to Court and to the Frau- 
leins Stahr on Sunday afternoons for music; ajid as 
for an invitation to his house — very few can obtain 
even that for another.” 

“And for the best of reasons,” interposed Muriel. 
“So few really know him thoroughly. His greatness 
is the obstacle to many who have the entr‘«^e to his 
salon, and they hamper themselves so with affecta- 
tions or silence that, personally, they never penetrate 
the polished reserve of the courtier. You will note 
how few have the courage to speak to him unbidden, 
even in the lesson. Those who do are invariably the 
older or the very young, naive first-year pupils, and it 
is to them that he addresses all his remarks. Only 
those whom he finds companionable, and who have 
acquired ease of speech and movement in his presence, 
ever come to know the true greatness of the man.” 


146 ^^MISS TRAUMEREV' 

“And how about the old sophism that ‘a man is a 
hero to everybody but his valet’?” 

“Oh, I can assure you,” continued Muriel, “Mischka 
is the most ardent hero-worshipper at the Royal Gar- 
dens. He seems to think his a sacred trust, and Pau- 
line’s regard for ‘Herr Doctor’ is positively touching. 
She has been with him these thirty years; first as 
housemaid at fourteen or fifteen years of age, when he 
went to live at the Altenburg in such grand style back 
in forty-seven ; and, later, as housekeeper of the simple 
apartments at the Royal Gardens. I don’t know what 
he would do without her. Were he a babe she could 
not care for him more tenderly. 

“Yes,” she added, “the loyalty and unaffected devo- 
tion of all those who come in close contact with the 
dear old Master speak the most eloquent praise of him 
as a man.” 

They still lingered on the terrace in rapt enjoyment 
of the still night, but at last Frau von Berwitz made 
a move to depart. 

“Come, dear children; it’s sacrilege to stir, I know, 
but the morrow is almost here, and — Muriel must rec- 
ognize limitations to her endurance.” 

The moon had cleared the treetops in the adjacent 
garden, and revealed the vine-grown roof and upper 
windows of the old mansion in a picturesque radiance. 
With uplifted eyes Stanford began to sing under his 
breath the German lines of the ‘Serenade’: 

Leise flehen meine Lieder 
Durch die Nacht zu dir, 

“That sounds natural,” interjected Frau von Ber- 


^^MISS TRAUMEREV' 147 

witz, tapping her approval against his arm, on which 
she leaned. 

“Surely, Xante,” he replied, interrupting his song, 
“you don’t mean to insinuate that I would sing Eng- 
lish to such a gable as that?” 

“It wouldn’t be fitting, would it?” she said, halting 
to note the typical points of the archaic dwelling. 
“Yet, why not?” she added, ingenuously, forgetful of 
the text to the “Serenade.” “Your countr)rwoman oc- 
cupies those rooms.” 

Muriel preceded them to the inner court, feigning 
not to have heard the dialogue, but listening with 
quickened heart-beats for his answer; and when he 
stopped to close and bolt the heavy iron door, she 
slackened her steps until they again followed. 

She hoped, with a tendency to conviction, that 
some suggestion of herself, perhaps unacknowledged 
in thought, had unconsciously brought the music to 
his lips. 

She lifted her face to the sky, and the glory of the 
starlight seemed to enter and expand her soul, and to 
guide her footsteps over the stairway, now in dark- 
ness. 

“Happy Gretchen,” she murmured, at this reminder 
of the maid’s negligence, and with a new considera- 
tion for the pair of sweethearts down in the great 
arch of the facade. 

The entry door was unlatched. She pushed it open, 
and, catching up a lighted lamp, went back to meet 
the others. Stanford took it from her, and then light- 
ing her own lamp, he handed it to her at the entrance 


148 <*MISS TRAUMEREr^ 

to the cloister, as Frau von Berwitz went to summon 
Gretchen. 

“I will watch you to the end,” he said, his words 
conveying a caress. “It must be dreary to pass all 
those old portraits and mysterious doors.” 

“Good-night,” she called over the threshold of her 
ante-room. 

“Good-night,” he answered in the shadowy distance, 
and she heard the far-away click of a lock after her 
door was closed. Muriel turned the lamp low, and, 
leaving it on the stand without, ascended the two 
steps before her bedchamber. The moonlight was 
shimmering through the open windows across the 
floor and the white pillows of her couch. Impulsively 
she threw herself on the soft silken counterpane to 
think it all over again and again, until blinded by 
happy tears, and she closed her eyes to hear the tender 
refrain of his last words, “good-night.” 

The sweet breath of roses stole into her dream and 
touched her face with dewy freshness. In luxurious 
indolence Muriel half-opened her eyes, only to close 
them again and spring suddenly upright with a star- 
tled gasp. The sun was shining full in her face. She 
looked down at the rumpled folds of her dress and 
turned to catch the gleam of the pale yellow light in 
the ante-room. A childish treble, rising in subdued 
monotone from: the garden below, was abruptly si- 
lenced by seven reverberating strokes of the clock in 
the castle tower. Then the soft murmur went on, and 
the day was begun. 


CHAPTER XVL 

The daily life at the Court Gardens moved in ac- 
cordance with a special code which had been evolved 
by the necessities of a phenomenal career. 

Mischka, therefore, experienced at first much diffi- 
culty in adjusting- his own to Liszt’s division of the 
hours of day and night. Although an eighteen 
months’ apprenticeship served to insure his response 
to the alarm clock, he was, nevertheless, not always 
awake when its insistent whirr brought him, at half- 
past three, to his feet. 

On such occasions his somnambulistic entrance 
into the bedchamber of so light a sleeper as Liszt 
served the original purpose, and frequently resulted, it 
is averred, in a very conscious exit. 

As usual, after a protracted absence, the Master, 
upon returning from Aachen, had found himself bur- 
dened with the duty of attending to a voluminous 
correspondence, which the considerable assistance of 
his intimate friend, Herr Hofrath Gille (of Jena), and 
Mischka had but just enabled him to regulate. Also, 
his Leipzig music publisher had become clamorous 
for fresh copy. His ambitious spirit being indifferent, 
under this pressure, to the consideration due to infirm 
age, he had ordered Mischka to arouse him at three 
o’clock. Thus, with no other sustenance than the usual 
potations of brandy and water, he had almost com- 
pleted a portion of his work, when Herr von Ilm- 

149 


150 ‘^MISS TRAUMEREr^ 

stedt came, a half-hour early, as escort to six 
o’clock mass. 

The Allee gate was locked. He lingered in the 
bright sunshine on the promenade to trace the faint 
silhouette of the Master’s head which the artificial 
light in the salon cast against the drawn blind by the 
writing-desk, until Pauline, who lodged near at hand, 
came to open the house and rewake Mischka. Ilm- 
stedt disposed himself on a trunk in the ante-room 
to conduct his habitual inquiry into the household af- 
fairs, whilst the valet polished Liszt’s shoes and 
brushed his street garb. To gratify Ilmstedt’s curi- 
osity about the new composition, Mischka, when he 
went ko assist the Master at his hasty toilet, sent the 
eager pupil into the salon. 

Ilmstedt, quite overcome at this privilege, never 
knew how he crossed the room, but, as he gazed at 
the still wet notes, he was consumed with desire to 
possess this creation of Liszt’s. His very soul seemed 
a fair price, until it occurred to him that the barter 
could be made for less. 

Fearful of detection at the desk, he sauntered to- 
wards the piano, examining the contents of his purse 
and mentally scheduling some important points. 

“6 a. m. Mass. 

“7 a. m. Return. Meister breakfasts on coffee, rolls 
and eggs. 

“7:30 a. m. Meister lies down to nap. 

“9:30 a. m. Meister rises and tries over new piece 
at piano. 

“9:45 a. m. Meister rewrites it for publisher. 


^‘MISS TRAUMEREI 


“10:45 Meister throws my copy — ^the original! 
— mine! — mine! — mine! — my own copy forevermore 
— into the waste-basket.” 

Supplement. 

“10:45 to II a* in* I — in ante-room. Servitor on 
guard — gold in one hand; my manuscript in the 
other.” 

* * 

A desultory fingering of the keyboard had just 
ceased when Mischka, on the stroke of twelve, threw 
open the door of the salon to announce “Fraulein 
Holme.” 

Herr Arthur rose from the piano to take leave. 
Three compositions which he had orchestrated during 
the Master’s absence in Aachen stood on the music- 
rest. 

“Really masterful,” cried Liszt, enthusiastically, call- 
ing Muriel’s attention to them. “Indeed, I do not be- 
lieve that Richard Wagner could have made them 
more effective.” 

“Oh, yes,” he concluded, “it is all deserved. Adieu, 
dear Arthur.” 

“I fear I disturb you, Meister,” began Muriel when 
they were alone. “I hesitated about allowing Mischka 
to request an audience for me, when he said you were 
not at leisure before dinner; but I had a ” 

“An important something to discuss with the old 
Meister,” he interposed. “Well, you need not have 
done that, for, as Don Carlos said to the Marquis of 
Posa, 'My doors are open to you. Enter freely at 
all times.’ ” 


152 


^^MISS TRAUMEREI 


“How generous, Meister. I hope, though, that I do 
not strain my welcome if I come now to beg a favor.’^ 

Liszt answered her anxious expression with a burst 
of genuine mirth. “Come,” he said, proffering a 
chair, “be seated.” 

“Not to-day, thank you, dear Meister. Otherwise 
I should detain you too long. I only wished to ask 
permission to bring into the lesson to-morrow a 
countryman of mine who is here visiting Frau von 
Berwitz. It would give him unspeakable pleasure, 
and — make me very happy.” 

“Of course! Of course! Is that all?” he inter- 
jected continually, with the utmost indulgence in his 
voice. “Of course. Friends of yours will always be 
welcome at the Royal Gardens. I am happy to grant 
you any request,” he continued, with a gentle defer- 
ence which bespoke his true estimate of his pupil. 
“In fact, you yourself are always so thoughtful and 
considerate of others, that I am doubly happy to be 
able to do you a favor.” 

Muriel caught her breath. “Oh, Meister!” sIiq 
gasped, curbing an impulse to embrace him and then 
rush madly from the room. Her crimson cheeks 
and bedewed eyes, however, proclaimed the thanks 
which she could not steady her voice to speak. 

“He — my countryman — Mr. Stanford,” she fal- 
tered at last, “has a very beautiful tenor voice, and 
sings Schubert most artistically.” 

“So?” exclaimed Liszt, employing a monosyllable 
of elastic functions in every-day German. “Perhaps 
he will favor us to-morrow. Ah! nein,” he added 


^‘MISS TRAUMEREr^ 


153 


hastily, with an eloquent gesture and a quick change 
of expression. “Better still. Come with him this 
afternoon at four. Kdmpel’s string quartette plays. 

Yet,” he said reflectively, “I have bidden only the 
gentlemen of my class. Ah! Pray ask Frau von 
Berwitz to honor me by her presence. No; I will 
write her.” 

He had crossed the room and taken up his 
pen before Muriel could convince him that it was un- 
necessary. 

“Very well, then, if you will kindly deliver my mes- 
sage.” 

“Now, dear master, I shall no longer keep you 
from your work,” she said, indicating the fresh manu- 
script before him. 

“Oh, no, no, no. That is ready for the publisher. 
One moment!” he exclaimed, with sudden thought, 
beginning to grope among sundry papers bearing, 
in his own hand, the symbols of his art; and he mused 
aloud: “A few alterations and it will be as good as 
the second. No?” Wheeling about he peered into 
the waste basket. It had been emptied a half-hour 
before. Again he scamped the papers. “That is 
strange! Humph!” 

Muriel was too familiar with present conditions 
not to know the cause of his vexation when she saw 
his resigned glance towards the ante-room. Then 
she remembered having seen Ilmstedt leave the 
house as she came in through the rustic gate, joy- 
ously intent upon something which he buttoned in 
his coat before going out by the Allee. 


154 


^^MISS TRAUMEREI’* 


“Never mind,” said the Master, yielding to his love 
of harmony in the household, “I will give you the 
printed copy later. It will look better than my pen- 
manship.” 

Muriel was glad that the latter thought amused 
him, for, just because of his open-handed generosity, 
she felt his disappointment more keenly than her 
own. Furthermore, she believed the incident would 
incite him shortly to the gift of a still more precious 
manuscript. It never occurred to her to censure 
Ilmstedt, were he the culprit, for aught than undue 
haste in his transaction. Otherwise his method 
of collecting souvenirs was a tradition of the Royal 
Gardens. 

Sunshine only found place in Muriel’s heart on 
the homeward way. The old park presented land- 
scapes of hitherto unknown beauty in its gentle un- 
dulations to the singing waters of the Ilm. Even 
the noisome cries of the peafowls on the lawns fell 
as music on her ears, though sweeter still came, fur- 
ther on a human chorus of treble voices from a 
leaf-embowered playground. Involuntarily she halted 
to smile at the little urchins tumbling about in bliss- 
ful disregard of soiled frocks and dirty faces; but 
only an instant, for withal, the old mansion seemed 
at that moment the one haven in the world most to be 
desired. One little man, feeling a soft hand touch his 
tangled locks, slowly turned in grave surprise to find 
its owner vanishing in the shrubbery. 

For the first time in her Weimar experience Muriel 
passed lightly over the paving between the library 


‘^MISS TRAUMEREI 


55 


and the palace, unmindful of its furrowed ed^e. Nor 
did she observe the sentinel before the guard-house 
until, rounding his hands above his mouth, he con- 
centrated his lung power in a prolonged yell and 
startled her out of her serenity. 

Like so many Jacks-in-the-box a handful of sol- 
diers sprang into sight and formed line. A succes- 
sion of inarticulate energe.tic orders from the com- 
manding sergeant caused them to move about 
as briskly as if they were controlled by electricity. A 
snare drum rattled forth a stirring salute as a royal 
carriage, dashing through the grand gateway from 
the palace court, rumbled across the oblong that Mu- 
riel had just quitted. However, the interior being 
unoccupied, the men smiled perceptibly at an order 
to disperse, and then Muriel noted their resemblance 
to animate beings. In fact, the sentinel and three 
others proved to be old acquaintances — young noble- 
men serving their twelvemonth as avantageurs be- 
fore donning a lieutenant’s epaulets. One had evi- 
dently been caught napping, for his comrades laugh- 
ingly pointed to. his reversed helmet as they made sal- 
utation and retreated to their lounging-place behind 
the columns of the portico. 

The uniforms recalled Count von Hohenfels. 
How the past had receded before her new-born hap- 
piness ! “It was only last night,” she mused, “and 
yet — so long ago.” Sorrow for the hopelessness. of 
his affection filled her heart. 

“What can I do?” she cried in despair; reverting 
then, quite naturally to thought of Stanford — “We 


156 


^‘MISS TRAUMEREI^' 


must practice together from now until dinner, if he is 
to sin^ this afternoon,” she exclaimed, with a surge 
of joy which obliterated memory. “To think of it! 
His glorious voice for one hour all to myself.” 

Pulsating with emotion, she entered the deep-cut 
street. As if in response to the first echoes of her 
tread, a shadow from the terrace fell suddenly across 
the way. Looking up she met Stanford’s inquiring 
eyes. He smiled and disappeared, and she knew he 
would let her in at the street door. 


CHAPTER XVIL 


‘T and Liszt/’ laboriously croaked an asthmatic 
voice, “have been acquainted for more than thirty 
years. We have travelled together several seasons 
and visited the whole of Europe. Ah! we did have 
some notable experiences — I and Liszt.” 

Rivington tarried a moment,- an appreciative lis- 
tener, behind the shrubbery, then, softly closing the 
Allee gate, he turned into the area before the house at 
the Royal Gardens. An adipose, beery-visaged sep- 
tuagenarian was propped up on an end of the long 
settle under the windows. He winked sagely with 
one eye at Frau von Berwitz, Muriel and Stanford 
as he wheezed out: “Then he was tall, spare and 
straight as an arrow, and had an eye like an eagle’s. 

Well, one night I and Liszt were in ” Muriel 

interrupted him to present Rivington. Then Pro- 
fessor Schmidt began anew: 

“As I was saving, one night I and Liszt were in 
Si ” 

“Good afternoon, ladies,” cried a fresh, cheery 
voice, breaking into the impending anecdote, “Good- 
day, Schmidt.” The celebrated leader of the quar- 
tette, followed by his associates, passed by with a 
friendly bow and went into the house. 

“As I was saying,” repeated the narrator, “one 
night I and Liszt were in a Silesian city, and the con- 


158 


‘ ^MISS TRA UMEREI ’’ 


cert was, as usual, crowded, and people turned away 
from the doors. Of course it was an ovation from 
A to Z, and I and Liszt ” 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” called Misclika from a 
salon window, “Herr Doctor has risen.” 

There was a general movement towards the house. 
Frau von Berwitz, preceding with Professor Schmidt, 
was overheard saying, “You were about to relate 
an anecdote of your tours with the Master, ilerr 
Professor.” 

“Yes — yes,” he responded, punctuating each word 
with file-like respirations. “To begin again, I and 
Liszt ” 

The three young people fell behind to vent their 
mirth at this extraordinary individual, who prefaced 
everything with “I and Liszt.” 

“He always does it,” exclaimed Muriel. “Long 
ago he was Liszt’s business manager, or something 
of the sort ; but now he draws a pension as a super- 
annuated member of the Grand Ducal orchestra. 
He belonged to the wind instruments, I believe.” 

Their subdued laughter faintly mingled with the 
sounds of a good-humored strife within. In the 
open door to the cellar, an irrepressible German youth, 
known to his colleagues as “Emil,” was struggling 
with the housekeeper for the possession of a quart 
bottle of champagne. 

“Ah, let me go, you bad boy.” 

“Now, Pauline — dear Pauline,” he pleaded, his 
eyes sparkling with mischief, as he tugged at the bot- 
tle, “let loose.” 


^^ 31 ISS TRAUMEREV’ 159 

'To your health, Pauline,” cried a g’ay comrade, 
coming from the kitchen with a glass of effervescing 
wine, which he impudently waved before her eyes and 
then sipped leisurely as she scolded him with a 
smile on her lips. 

“Ach! du lieber Himmel! you have opened a sec- 
ond bottle! Let go, you wicked child.” Freeing 
herself from Emil’s clutches, she locked the cellar 
door and dropped the key into her pocket. 

“Ach! Missy,” she exclaimed, espying Muriel, as 
she 'wrapped the bottle securely in her apron on the 
way to the kitchen. “Only see, these unruly boys are 
teasing me, as usual. There is no getting rid of 
them.” 

“Rid of us? Now that is good,” retorted Emil 
saucily. “You would not be rid of us, dearest Pau- 
line, for anything in the world.” 

For reply she sprang across the kitchen threshold 
and, slamming the door behind her, turned the key in 
the lock. 

“Herr Emil is right,” said Muriel, as they continued 
their way up. “Those young fellows tease her con- 
tinually, but having always had their kind to deal 
with when the Master is here, she has become quite 
attached to — or better said, accustomed to them.” 

The members of the quartette were grouping them- 
selves in the centre of the dining-room as Frau von 
Berwitz entered in advance of those crowding into 
the ante-chamber. Instantly Liszt turned from the 
players to receive her. 

“Madame, I am prcud to see you here,” he said, 


1 6o ^^MISS TRAUMEREI ” 

offering both hands and touching: her forehead lig:htly 
with his lips. 

“Ah, America!” he ejaculated, with a similar g:reet- 
ing: for Muriel. The latter, in recalling: his undeviat- 
ing: tone of cordiality for all who entered his house 
as special g:uests, turned, no less nervously, however, 
because of her joyous premonition of a still heartier 
reception awaiting Stanford, to make the presentation. 

The Master, extending' his hand, said with an en- 
gaging smile: “You are very welcome.” Then, address- 
ing the trio, he continued with a gesture at the musi- 
cians: “I had the table removed. Stringed instruments 
sound better in here. Too many hangings — too 
much furniture in the music-room. Pray be seated; 
we shall begin at once.” 

Some pupils were already there. Others came in 
whilst the instruments were being tuned, and, lastly, 
two white-haired men, Herr Hofrath Gille, of Jena, 
and the Court organist Gottschalg. A few found 
chairs; the majority seemed to prefer standing along 
the walls. 

Liszt took a seat between the two ladies before the 
salon door. “I trust the glare is not too strong?" 
he said, in apology for having drawn the curtains 
of the window facing them in order to give the mu- 
sicians light. “My failing eyesight” — he raised his 
hand with an impatient movement to his brows — 
“has caused me considerable worry of late. I in- 
jured it some years since during a residence in Rome. 
I lived at the Villa d’Estes, Tivoli, and always drove 
to and from the city. As the return trip was gener- 


<^MISS TRAUMEREI 


i6i 


ally be^un after sundown I had a lamp placed in my 
carriage that I might economize the interval by read- 
ing, for the way was long and had to be traversed 
several times each week.” 

“Oh, well,” he subjoined, with an expressive shrug, 
“the mischief has been done.” 

In trying to conceive Stanford’s impressions of 
this first visit to the Royal Gardens, Muriel found 
herself contrasting Liszt’s elegant, guarded flow of 
language with his oftentimes reckless, caustic epi- 
grams when, untrammelled by a host’s obligations, 
he mingled with his pupils in the class. 

However, the Master turned the channel of her 
thoughts by opening the score of a Beethoven quar- 
tette, and handing it to her to follow. After signal- 
ing the players to begin, he leaned back in his chair 
and closed his eyes. If particularly pleased with 
some passage of music, or the manner of reading it, 
he would open them again and cry “Bravo!” 

He feigned not to hear when the entrance of Emil 
and two associates in his pranks caused a slight com- 
motion. One of them found a chair. Two minutes 
later his head was hanging heavily forward. Liszt 
suddenly opened his eyes to gaze fixedly at him with- 
out moving a muscle. 

A muffled explosion of laughter from Arthur very 
nearly created a scene. 

“What is the matter?” whispered Rivington. 

“Meister looked at Hermann with so much re- 
spect.” 

“Justyou wait,” said Emil, snapping his eyes, “he’ll 


i 62 miss TRAUMEREV^ 

get his head blown off to-morrow — if he is sober by 
that time.” 

After the Beethoven number, Pauline, bearing 
aloft an elaborately-decorated cake, entered to clear 
the way for Mischka, who followed with a huge bowl 
of champagne punch. The Master himself sei*ved 
the ladies, whereupon the young men devoted them- 
selves to the punch. 

By some inexplicable chance no one stood near 
when Liszt turned again towards the buffet. 

“Do not spare the punch, gentlemen,” he re- 
marked, in evident surprise. 

A significant smile passed over the assembly. 
Stanford picked up a glass and said: “Permit me, 
Meister, to drink to your very good health.” 

“That is very kind,” he responded, with a look of 
pleasure. “Excuse me one moment. I never drink 
champagne — bad for me.” Pouring some claret 
from a decanter he touched glasses with Stanford. 
Muriel observed that the latter only put the beverage 
to his lips. 

“Miss Holme tells me you have been in Weimar 
before,” said the Master. 

“I attended school here from my sixth to my 
eighteenth year.” 

“In that case you should be called a son of Weimar.” 

“Indeed, it seems like home to me. It is impossible 
to stay away. This is my tenth visit since leaving 
Germany twelve years ago.” 

“Sapp’rrement! It is quite incomprehensible to 
me how you Americans can cross the Atlantic so 


^^MISS TRAUMEREr' 


63 


often. I could never make up my mind to the trip. 
I have always had an aversion to lon^ sea voyages. 
The journel across the English channel was as much 
as I could bear.” Liszt shook his head ruefully. 
Raising his eyes he scanned Stanford’s face. 

‘T hope we shall have the pleasure of hearing you 
sing to-day. You have brought your music?” he 
questioned, with penetrating directness. Instantly 
something of that expression with which he always 
unnerved his new pupils possessed him. 

“Yes, Meister,” replied Stanford, wincing as at an 
ordeal, “if an amateur may venture to sing before 
you?” 

“Oh!” he interjected, with an expostulatory toss 
of the head, though by no means displeased at the tra- 
ditional homage. “After another quartette we will 
adjourn to the salon.” 

He rested his hand on Stanford’s arm, as if to con- 
firm his good-will, and said to the musicians: “Well, 
gentlemen, how about the new quartette?” 

Some one tendered the score, which he shared with 
Muriel, though he kept his eyes closed during the 
most of the performance, and she, in her agitation 
over Stanford’s prospective debut, followed the notes 
mechanically, without thought of the composer’s name. 
Nor did she know that she was assisting at a first hear- 
ing, until everybod}^ crowded round to view the score. 
She suspected it to be the Master’s work, but having 
once relinquished her place, she was too abashed to 
ask the question. 

In the midst of the general discussion the players 


164 


^^MISS TRAUMEREI 


took their leave, and then Liszt soon bade his other 
guests enter the salon to hear Stanford. Escorting 
Frau von Berwitz to a place at the further end of the 
room, he took a seat beside her as a signal for general 
attention. In that moment a sense of responsibility 
vanquished Muriel’s chronic timidity at playing 
within these four walls, which seemed ever echoing 
the inspirations of tlie great Master. Her sentiment 
and judgment combined in the choice of “Am Meer,” 
because, for him, the least exacting of their favorites 
from Schubert. Happily, the first touch of her skilled 
fingers gave her countryman courage to combat 
that paralyzing, humiliating fear which, at the de- 
cisive moment, invariably assaulted candidates for 
Liszt’s approval. Ere he had completed the lines: 

Das Meer erglantzte weit hinaus, 

Im letzten Abendscheine,” 

Muriel knew that he would do himself justice, and 
hearing a surprised “bravo — bravi^simo!” from the 
opposite end of the salon, she once more yielded her- 
self to his enthralling power. Utter silence followed 
the dying strains, until the Master rose to cross the 
room and fold the singer to his breast without a word. 

A succession of whispered “bravos” and light ap- 
plause bespoke the mind of the lookers-on. Stan- 
ford had created a sensation. 

Muriel’s heart swelled with sweetest triumph. She 
had welded the first link in the chain which would 
bind him to her. 

Liszt motioned her to rise. Sinking into her 


^^MISS TRAUMEREV' 1^5 

place he searched the index of songs and turned to 
'‘Sei mir gegriisst.” 

“That is for you,” he said, looking up at Stanford. 
“You have sung it, of course?” Without waiting 
for assent his fingers fell with velvety caress upon the 
keys. Liszt’s touch seemed to fire Stanford’s blood. 
His delivery of the invocation: 

O du Entriss’ne mir und meinem Kufse 
Sei mir gegrusst sei mir gekiisst. 

revealed attributes both intensely human and divine. 

Muriel leaned heavily against the sofa and drove 
her heels into the carpet in the effort to control her 
features. She was enraged at allowing herself to be 
shut in where every one could read her face. She 
looked out of the window and tried to think of other 
things, and all the time Stanford was singing with a 
passionate fervor, a perfection of phrasing, to which 
she had not yet been able to incite him. Every fibre 
of her being rebelled at this maddening realization. 
The primal motive of their coming was forgotten. 
She could have annihilated everything and every- 
body — but him — in the room. The loving, vener- 
ating pupil had suddenly, without the slightest warn- 
ing even to herself, become a victim of the fiercest 
jealousy. She hated Liszt for his sway over Stan- 
ford, as she condemned the latter for his unsuspecting 
faithlessness. 

“If I were but sure of him,” cried her wounded 
heart, “they might all play his accompaniments at 
once, for aught I would care.” Again all her resent- 


i66 


‘^MISS TRAUMEREI 


nient would melt away before the irresistible tender- 
ness in that ever-recurring refrain : 

“Sei mir gegrusst sei mir gekiisst.” 

Then she fell to wondering, with a wild yearning 
to know the truth, if, at all, his marvellous power 
of expression were not art; if the tenderness and af- 
fection breathed forth in song did not leave his 
heart barren of such sentiments? Yet in recalling 
the increasing gentleness of his speech and manner 
in their simple home-life, she fell once more into 
happy confusion. In this emotional fever Muriel 
followed the song to the end. 

Stanford waited with lowered eyes for the final 
note of the accompaniment. It did not come at 
once, for the Master again took up the theme, art- 
fully reworking it during the next ten minutes into 
a marv^ellous harmonic texture of his own fancy. 
His eyes, reflecting each minute shade of expression 
which characterized his improvisation, were in them- 
selves a study. The auditors leaned forward in spell- 
bound attitudes, unwilling to lose one glimpse of 
that deeply-lined, transfigured face. 

To Muriel each soft, stirring note of the music con- 
veyed a gentle rebuke for her rebellious mood. Then 
and there she could have thrown herself on the Mas- 
ter’s neck and implored forgiveness. She seemed 
never to have loved the dear old man so much as 
in the consciousness of having given him an un- 
grateful thought. Her face was hidden by her hand, 
and she had scarcely heeded her penitent tears until 
aroused by an abrupt silence in the room. 


^‘MISS TRAUMEREI 


167 


Liszt was powerfully moved by the music. His 
eyes had a thoughtful, far-away look, as if searching 
amongst tender memories of a dead past. His voice 
sounded low and thick when he pushed away from 
the piano and spoke to Stanford: 

“Come to-morrow — to the lesson. Your welcome 
is assured for all time. Aufwiedersehen !” Grasp- 
ing both hands he kissed him warmly on the cheeks. 

Where the soul of music enters, human hearts are 
joining in wonderful accord; fleetingly, it may be, but 
firmly while it lasts. 

“Good-byes” came reluctantly. 

“Dear Meister,” whispered Muriel, so softly that 
none overheard, “I thank you from my heart. You 
have made several people very — very happy to-day.” 

“So have 3^ou. You have my gratitude also, dear 
friend,” he repeated, as if calling himself with effort 
to the present. With impulsive disregard of the 
conventions he took her in his arms, for the first time 
in their acquaintance, and affectionately kissed 
both cheeks. 

“Remember it is the old Master who thanks you. 
God bless you, dear America. Aufwiedersehen! auf- 
wiedersehen!” 


CHAPTER XVIIL 

Pursuant to her desire to acquaint Stanford with 
the life of the Liszt clique, Muriel had proposed, 
at dinner, an evening at Werther’s Garden, a popular 
open-air restaurant adjoining the Grand Ducal The- 
atre. 

However, after her mental struggle in the mu- 
sicale at the Royal Gardens, she wavered in her plan 
for lionizing him. 

When an ingrate, humbled and penitent before 
Liszt, she was disposed to put a rational construction 
on Stanford’s transgression in having, without her 
accompaniment, surpassed his previous vocal efforts; 
but upon leaving the house her heart chilled to his 
grateful speeches and renewed devotion. They 
seemed to her an admission of his thoughtlessly in- 
flicted slight; to feel that she had been out of his 
thoughts for any period of time, however brief, gave 
her bitter pain. 

In her overwrought, nervous state, she immedi- 
ately began to cherish her grievance with a morbid 
tenacity which no amount of reasoning could weaken. 
She was disinclined to create other opportunities 
for him to upset her tranquillity; her selfish desire 
was to pursue life as they had begun it, in the se- 
clusion of the von Berwitz abode; but she had gone 
too far to retreat. Her promise was given, and she 
had no choice but to face tortures inevitable, as thq 


^^AIISS TRAUMEREI 


169 


afternoon had proven. Under present conditions 
she felt it quite justifiable to plead a headache and 
keep Stanford at home, but having once divined his 
interest in the proposed entertainment, no personal 
sacrifice seemed, in that moment, too great for her 
to make — anything rather than cloud his most trivial 
happiness. 

“If I but knew,” was the refrain of every query her 
mood suggested ; and yet, upon so short an ac- 
quaintance, Stanford could not have shocked her 
sense of propriety more than by telling her that 
which she most longed to know. 

Her unconscious silence and listless air provoked 
Frau von Berwitz’s spirit of inquiry. With a painful 
realization of her own dullness, Muriel said that she 
was perfectly well and desirous of adhering to their 
original plan for the evening. Nevertheless her 
alternating fits of forced pleasantry and deep abstrac- 
tion having depressed the other two, it was a very 
bored-looking trio, which sought, towards eight 
o’clock, the narrow short cuts over the rough-paved 
town to the little square environing the bronze im- 
ages of that immortal pair, Goethe and Schiller. 

It was the weekly “band night” at Werther’s Gar- 
den. The familiar strains of Weber’s “Euryanthe” 
overture were rising in tonal splendor from the su- 
perb regimental brass within the shaded enclosure, 
as Stanford lingered at the gate to pay a trifling ad- 
mission fee. The lights were not all turned on, but 
here and there, in the deepening shadows of the trees, 
family groups had assembled for the evening meal. 


70 


^^MISS TRAUMEREI 


Muriel looked down the long avenue of tables, 
which held the promise of so much brilliancy later 
on, and shuddered at thought of the weary hours 
in store for her. She could not talk. Her brain re- 
fused to yield its one burning theme. Her head 
seemed bound with tightening steel. . Involuntarily 
she put up her hand, and the shadow it cast made her 
think of the lonely bypaths in the shrubbery. The 
idea possessed her to dart into one of them and elude 
her companions. Frau von Berwitz, being ahead, 
would not see her and . She pictured herself es- 

caping from the garden, running through unfre- 
quented side streets to the station, from which the 
train carried her, quick as thought, to the furthermost 
corner of Europe that she might be alone when her 
heart broke. 

She was already sorrowfully contemplating her 
own lifeless body in the dreary wastes of Siberia, and 
thinking how Stanford, who would arrive in frenzied 
haste by troika, would fling himself remorsefully at 
her side and wildly protest against cruel fate, when, 
turning impulsively, with the image of hiS agonized 
face still before her mind’s eye, she saw him tapping 
the tables and chairs with his cane — she fancied in 
secret annoyance — as he followed, looking indiffer- 
ently to the right and left. 

However, Muriel was not alert enough to evade 
Stanford’s penerating glance. 

“What is it?” he asked, stopping in tender solici- 
tude before her. 

“Nothing,” she answered, with a short laugh, in 


^^MISS TRAUMEREV* 171 

which there was the trace of a sob, as the absurdity 
of her mental attitude occurred to her. Afraid to 
trust her voice further, she turned and started towards 
Frau von Berwitz, uneasily aware of Stanford’s puz- 
zled scrutiny as he paced silently at her side. 

Beyond the music stand, where they could com- 
mand the main promenade, a body of young, gaily- 
uniformed officers faced each other above a long 
table. At sight of Frau von Berwitz, Lieutenant von 
Jahn rose hastily to his feet to lead the general 
salutation. Count von Hohenfels was not of the 
party, owing to the presence of his mother in the 
city. Seeing no other military coats about, Muriel’s 
heart was lightened with the hope that she might be 
spared the necessity of mediating beween Hohenfels 
and Stanford, when they abruptly came upon the 
officer supping with the Countess and Fraulein Pan- 
zer in a roofed area at the extreme end of the gar- 
den. It was too late to avoid a meeting or the inev- 
itable bidding to share their table. 

Muriel and Hohenfels, at least, conformed, with 
secret thanksgivings, to the dominating hush which 
good-breeding exacts during music; she, indeed, was 
not in a mood to dissemble with success, especially 
after the occurrences of the past few hours, and 
Hohenfels’ uneasy glances indicated his purpose to 
follow her initiative. 

It depressed Fraulein Panzer, however, to see the 
two young people so ill at ease. Even Frau von 
Berwitz and Stanford too, she fancied a trifle out of 
sorts. Feeling it incumbent to create a more cheer- 


172 


‘^MISS TRAUMEREI 


ful tone in her party, she filled the pause with droll 
stories of the local clowns discovered by her roving 
eye, until convinced of success by a spontaneous 
burst of laughter from all but the deaf Countess, who 
could only smile her approval. The music rose again, 
and with it came a hush so profound, from the throng 
now gathered, that the light footfalls of two ad- 
vancing couples reached them from the further end 
of the gravelled walk. 

A low murmur of voices followed their course, as 
the two ladies of the quartette bowed right and left, 
until they came upon the last vacant table in the 
enclosure. 

“Everything that walks in Weimar knows them,” 
remarked Fraulein Panzer, watching their friendly 
reception of some long-haired youths of marked na- 
tional types, who had sprung up in various quarters 
of the garden at the close of the music. 

“The Fraulein Stahr, with August and Ilmstedt,” 
said Muriel, in response to Stanford’s inquiring look. 
“They will come over to make your acquaintance 
wlien they see us, for they have already heard of your 
afternoon’s success.” 

“Without question,” observed Fraulein Panzer, 
with unusual acridity. “They know the daily hap- 
penings at the Royal Gardens ere the sun disap- 
pears behind the Ettersberg!” 

“Do they employ carrier doves?” asked Stanford, 
with humorous appreciation of the “Little Canary 
Bird’s” fit of spleen. 

“No! Magpies!” She retorted, with a sharp chirp. 


‘ ‘MISS TRA UMEREI 


173 


Like other Weimaraner, she regarded Anna and 
Helene Stahr with a curious mixture of tantalizing 
emotions, because of their lifelong devotion to Liszt 
and their disinterested absorption in his pupils. She 
invariably greeted any mention of the sisters with a 
sarcastic smile, a shrug or an elevation of the eye- 
brows, though by no means unwilling to acknowl- 
edge their really great influence on the advancement 
of musical art, whether as instigators of some en- 
terprise, local or foreign, or in the better-known ca- 
pacity of instructors to the musically inclined youth 
of the Grand Ducal capital. 

“They will expect you to sing at their house to- 
morrow afternoon,” she continued in her former 
tone. 

Stanford smiled dubiously. 

“Oh, they won’t let you off.” 

“Sing for them, by all means, Carl,” interposed 
Frau von Berwitz. “Their musicales are a matter 
of history. Their father, Adolph Stahr, the poet and 
historian, was Liszt’s most intimate friend when they 
were children. It is now about thirty-five years since 
Liszt began going there on Sunday afternoons in 
summer. Formerly he played, now his pupils make 
the music while he sits in the front row and listens. 
Nearly all the great artists of the time have ap- 
peared there. One room is devoted to their pictures, 
autographs and souvenirs generally. It is probably 
one of the finest collections extant. Muriel has 
named it the ‘Museum.’ ” They all looked at Muriel 
expectantly. She tried to speak, but could not; and 


174 


‘ ‘MISS TRA UMEREI 


laying her arm on the table, leaned over it to fill an 
awkward pause. She breathed with effort; the blood 
seemed to leave the region of her heart and surge 
remorselessly against the weary tissues of her brain. 
She felt anew the agony of the afternoon’s ordeal. 
She could suffer no kind of interference with Stan- 
ford! Both Frau von Berwitz and Fraulein Panzer 
had preceded her in a once-cherished plan; inno- 
cently, she knew, but she could not forgive the act, 
for each new helping hand weakened her hold on 
him. The thought roused her craft; the moment 
gave inspiration. 

^ “Annihilate feeling and lead,” it said : “be not led 1” 

The force of an invincible will animated her word 
and glance. 

“Will you not go with me now to meet them?” 
she said with composure to Stanford; “it will please 
them.” 

The two Americans wended their way amongst the 
crowded tables to the Fraulein Stahr. The noisy 
welcome to Muriel put Stanford in touch with the 
spirit pervading the convivial board, as he edged his 
way into the circle of young celebrities, who had 
become, with the traditional self-satisfied bearing of 
the Lisztianer, totally oblivious of the curious atten- 
tion of the townspeople. When he remarked on the 
Babel of tongues, Muriel counted off to him the rep- 
resentatives of eleven different nationalities. They 
were all talking at once, seeming never to expect 
replies; at least, that was the impression made on 
Stanford, for before he bade them good-night, the 


TRAUMEREI 


75 


only words he had uttered were in promise to sing 
the following afternoon for the Fraulein Stahr. 

“They were too many,” observed Muriel, as they 
sauntered back to their party. “You must go with 
me some evening to the Russischer Hof, where chosen 
ones only meet with the Sisters Stahr for supper. 
There I can insure you reminiscences worth carrying 
to America.” 

Stanford darted an eloquent glance — one so entirely 
for her that she retarded her steps to turn her face 
to the crowded garden for one ecstatic moment be- 
fore material thoughts obtruded on the precious 
memory. 

But she would not yield to so brief a promise of 
divine happiness. She had been too often subjected 
to attentions of ephemeral import to readily trust 
men’s eyes. Heaven was not for her — ^yet. She 
remembered the voice of warning: “Lead! Be not 
led!” and confronted him with unperturbed counte- 
nance. 

He moved his lips to speak — hestitated as if un- 
able to articulate, and — they had reached the table. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


Sunday afternoon, at four o’clock, Liszt’s barouche 
drew up at a gate in Schwanseestrasse. August, who 
had driven with him, sprang down and helped him 
to alight. Anna and Helene Stahr, in white muslins 
with fluttering green ribbons, came flitting through 
the garden of a modern brick residence to meet 
them half way. From the music-room of their sec- 
ond-floor apartment the more favored pupils went to 
receive the Master at the head of the staircase, while 
the dubious ones hovered with faint hearts about the 
entrance, and a bevy of pretty girls, unknown 
to the Lisztianer, shrank into the remotest corner. 
Following the treble-crescendo, Liszt came to a halt 
on the threshold. 

The long, closely-fitting coat of his ecclesiastical 
rank enhanced the dignity of his bearing, as he be- 
nignly grasped the first timorously extended hand. 
Encouraged thereby, the others now moved briskly 
forward to pay their respects, and Anna Stahr actually 
propelled the strangers along before the Master, to 
present them in turn ere he indulged in his well- 
known propensity for cutting off introductions by 
taking a seat in the front row of chairs. 

The Fraulein Stahr settled themselves to the right 
and left of him, and gave the second places to Muriel 
and Stanford, whilst the rear end of the escorting pro- 
cession, taking a roundabout course, poured in 

176 


*^3fISS TRAUMEREr^ 177 

through the dining-room door and sought the nearest 
vacancies. 

Silence fell like a curtain, and, as by magic, 
Arthur and Ivan, the latter a young Russian with a 
prodigious technique, appeared seated before two up- 
right pianos. 

During the flutter of expectancy over the first 
notes of a programme full of surprises, which they 
had prepared to welcome the Master home, Muriel 
noted the absence of the pretty strangers, and espied 
two pairs of bright eyes covertly inspecting Stan- 
ford’s handsome face from the dark folds of the din- 
ing-room portiere. 

“The Master is nothing to them beside Carl,” she 
reflected, in instantaneous rebellion. 

The realization that she had called him “Carl” to 
herself, for the first time without forethought, sent 
the hot blood over her face like a flame. Often, in 
solitary musing, she had conjured up his magnetic 
presence, gazed into his fathomless eyes and heard 
his name linger fondly on the breath of all nature, 
until “Carl — Carl — Carl” had become the dearest re- 
frain of her beloved music. Even though she hardly 
dared trust the promise of his eyes, still, in the 
memory of that last meaningful glance at Werther’s 
Garden, peace of mind had descended like a blessing 
divine, bringing rest to her slumbers and sunshine 
to the new-born day. 

Stanford’s welcome had a ring of eager delight 
when, in obedience to intuition, she had made her 
first appearance for that day at dinner; not only in 


78 


‘ ^MISS TRAUMEREI 


order to obtain extra rest, but also to gain an expres- 
sion of his desire for her companionship. 

No woman, however much she may help a man in 
his wooing, wishes to seem easily won. Muriel, 
therefore gloried in the unmistakable devotion in 
Stanford’s word and glance, as they sauntered across 
town to the Fraulein Stahr. Fears and resolves, in 
fact, had no place in the all-sufficient present until 
her notice of Stanford’s admirers induced a telltale 
color which caught Liszt’s ever-ready eye. 

With a perceptible start Muriel sank back in her 
chair, and the Master, developing a precipitate inter- 
est in the music, exchanged his seat for one between 
the two pianists where he could unobservedly advise 
them, or play at either end of the keyboard to broaden 
the harmonies. Soothed by this manoeuvre, Muriel 
hearkened to the music as if every note were played 
on the strings of her heart, for just beyond the semi- 
circle sat Stanford, with half-turned face, clearly more 
intent upon her than upon the performers. 

They were playing from memory “Faust,” the fav- 
orite symphonic poem of Liszt, who indulged in inter- 
mittent bravos of delight. Then his face would set- 
tle, with a low droop of the upper lip which gave him 
a stern, commanding expression, while his fixed eyes 
seemed penetrating regions too distant for others to 
follow. The music faded to a pianissimo, and the 
Master began humming softly as he marked the time 
with the forefinger of his right hand. He himself 
was hearkening, in fancy, to angelic choirs, his coun- 
tenance wearing a look of peaceful elevation. So far 


^^MISS TRAUMEREI' 


179 


had he wandered from earthly scenes that the swell- 
ing harmony of pure young voices in the adjoining 
room was soaring gloriously towards heaven ere he 
w^as roused to the sweet reality. 

A moment he was motionless and silent, listening 
to reassure himself, and then he turned a radiant face 
to the Sisters Stahr. Every heart mirrored its re- 
sponse to the happy, spontaneous smile that passed 
through the room; a portiere glided noiselessly 
aside, and just over the threshold stood the singers — 
the pretty strangers — their bright young faces up- 
turned to an invisible leader. 

A soft happy light stirred the depths of the Mas- 
ter’s gray eyes, and the heavy lines of his face re- 
laxed under the stress of genuine emotion. 

Although, as creator of a new form in musical art — 
the symphonic poem — none could dispute his claim 
to immortality, it was no secret that he was ofttimes 
grievously irritated in old age to have his maturer 
works ignored by neighboring musical autocrats. 
This modestly planned production, therefore, sounded 
not only the first notes of the crusade to overcome 
that prejudice, but told, also, of the love of his loyal 
and grateful disciples. 

The final note of song floated heavenward. The 
portiere glided into place. Arthur and Ivan played 
to the end. Then the Master, overcome by his grati- 
fying surprise, could no more than shout “Bravis- 
simo !” as he embraced successively the E raulein Stahr 
and the performers, including Alfred, the hidden 
choir-master, and his winsome band. 


8o 


^^MISS TRAUMEREI 


Since Liszt’s arrival the temperature in the room 
had risen to almost unbearable height. He had as 
deep-rooted a dislike for draughts as for conserva- 
tories of music. The rooms were, therefore, kept 
practically airtight. As poor Arthur and Ivan stood 
before him, patiently mopping their faces, he gave 
indication of the stifling heat by constantly running 
his fingers through his long, silky hair. “Mariechen” 
crept up behind, and, with forefinger and thumb, pil- 
fered the loose strands littering his shoulders, twirling 
them, for safe keeping, about a button of her dress. 
Her pantomime was inimitable, and when she steal- 
thily drew away, she confessed to her laughing col- 
leagues to having collected, at odd intervals, almost 
enough for a locket. 

A gesture from Liszt an.d a movement towards the 
door drew all eyes to a novice, a guilty window- 
opener, who drew back abashed as a half-dozen people 
sprang to close it. 

Helene Stahr slipped away to hasten the pro- 
gramme by introducing another surprise. 

The strident noise of a violin undergoing the pro- 
cess of tuning cut into the confused murmur of re- 
seating. 

“Ah! My little Paganini!” The Master’s face 
glowed with delight, and he walked swiftly, with 
hands extended, towards the dining-room; but the 
portiere moved back, and a fairylike young creature 
in white lace bounded forward to meet him. 

“Who is ‘Little Paganini’?” quizzed Stanford, 
amidst a furore of plaudits and bravos. 


<^MISS TRAUMEREI 


i8i 


“A countrywoman of ours, who carried off both 
prizes at the National Conservatory in Paris, Arna 
Trebor,” said Muriel. “Robert, really; for she re- 
versed the spelling' of her name to satisfy a whim of 
her manager.’^ 

“The Arna, also? The backward is odder than the 
forward spelling.” 

“Oh, no; that is a birthright. To settle a dispute 
for a name, her uncle threw some letters of the alpha- 
bet into a hat, and drew for the first combination that 
made sense. A-r-n-a was the result, according' to 
her mother.” And Muriel called attention to a tall, 
fashionably-attired woman, the centre of an admiring 
group. 

“A handsome pair, and inseparable. They spend 
their summers here, and, through Liszt’s champion- 
ship, Arna has been showered with honors galore. 
They returned last night from a tournee. Her or- 
ders, her gifts from crowned heads and societies, and 
her mementoes generally, offset interest in the collec- 
tion there.” She finished by pointing to the “Mu- 
seum” entrance. 

Beyond the threshold stood a group of choristers, 
intent upon her and Stanford. “How miserable his 
wife would be,” reflected Muriel, as a sickening par- 
alysis crept into her arms. “How miserable his wife 
would be if he yielded to the sway of other women. 
Would he? Could he?” 

“Really, you have the most penetrating eyes I have 
ever — felt,” Stanford exclaimed, in a bantering tone. 
“What do you see?” 


i 82 


^*MISS TRAUMEREP^ 


“Nothing,” retorted Muriel impulsively, and forgot 
her mercurial mood. 

“Oh, what a blow!” 

They both laughed light-heartedly, and resumed 
their places, for Liszt had bowed Arna to her station 
with the deference due genius double her years. 

The violinist raised the Stradivarius and sank her 
pretty head, with its curling brown locks, upon it. 
One stroke of the bow on the soulful strings, and 
the great, laughing gray eyes assumed a look of 
dreamland. 

The violin spoke to them like the voice of a human 
heart; but a voice made beautiful by the knowledge 
of a refining and ennobling art. None would or 
could resist the spell of the graceful Arna. They 
listened and looked as though she were a creature 
divine. The very harmonies seemed born of her 
fingers and the vibrating of the strings of the old 
violin. Never were composer and interpreter more in 
accord. 

“She feels his thoughts,” observed Muriel softly 
to Stanford, who had placed his chair next to hers 
after the intermission. 

“Whose?” 

“The composer’s — Bird’s — Arthur Bird, who wrote 
that romance. He is a countryman, you know.” 

“Does a woman always feel her countryman’s 
thoughts?” Stanford leaned slightly nearer, with a 
roguish twinkle of the eyes. 

“Not if he be fickle,” retorted Muriel, brightly. 
“They would be too inane.” 


^^MISS TRAUMEREI 


1S3 

Stanford laughed, and subsided at a cue for silence. 

As she raised her bow, Arna’s countenance glowed 
with a coquettish light. A shower of crisp, scintillat- 
ing notes sprang from the pulsating strings like a 
meteoric fire. The rhythm, the grace, the warmth and 
playful abandon of the Sarasate “Spanish Dance” 
were irresistible; while the fearlessness of her extra- 
ordinary technique swept the emotions of the hearers 
to a stirring climax of wild applause. 

“Inimitable! Unquestionably great!” cried Muriel, 
excitedly. 

“Her personality is half of it,” added Stanford, all 
aglow with interest. 

“Of course,” replied Muriel, calmed by his observa- 
tion. “She suggests what a celebrated violinist re- 
cently said to me: T love my husband better than 
any man living, but I don’t love him a quarter as 
much as I do my violin.’ ” 

“Has a piano that same power over a woman?” 
inquired Stanford, with a return of his gay manner. 

“It could have.” 

“Is it the rule?” 

“A paradoxical rule, perhaps.” 

“How so?” . 

“Isn’t a woman full of contradictions?” 

“Delightful contradictions — yes.” Stanford was 
oblivious of his surroundings, as he brought his 
laughing eyes nearer. “Now, seriously — no evasion.” 

Looking sharply about her, Muriel leaned dis- 
creetly back in her chair, but a less capricious tone 
marked her words, and she lowered her voice as Arna 


i84 


^<MISS TRAUMEREI 


silenced applause by retuning her violin. “An artist 
is, first of all, a woman — the artist afterwards. She 
demands love for herself — ^admiration for her accom- 
plishments.” 

“Isn’t that a bit selfish, demanding a fourfold re- 
turn — to judge by your violinist — for what she 
gives?” 

“Ah ! My violinist was nurtured on the homage of 
the public. It was her daily bread.” 

“Then would not the man in the question better 
take time — the artist — by the forelock, and prevent 
the ddbut?” 

They laughed like two innocent-hearted children, 
and Muriel continued, archly: “Why? To let her 
dream of what might have been?” 

“But would she — if she loved her husband?” 

“Even then,” replied Muriel, with a sage expres- 
sion, which changed as she added, “but she wouldn’t 
regret it — if she truly loved.” There was a warmth 
in her voice, a sympathetic thrill — almost a sugges- 
tion of happy, unconscious tears. 

Stanford flushed slightly. “That,” he interposed, 
“is the ideal wife.” 

“Yet, a practical one,” she added, softly, for, in 
honor of Liszt, Ama had begun his' “Elegie,” a favor- 
ite composition, which he always accompanied in his 
own house. 

With senses prepared by this play at hearts for the 
keenest enjoyment of music, they found it in watching 
the player’s lovely face reflect the minutest shade of 
sentiment pouring from the soul of the old violin. 


^^MISS TRAUMEREI 


185 

Her versatility fascinated — enthralled the more deeply 
with each new mood, until her mere presence be- 
spoke inspiration. 

Luxuriating- in the mystic charm enfolding her, 
Muriel lazily turned to bask in the sunshine of Stan- 
ford’s countenance. Transfixed by Arna’s magic, he 
was lost in the snare of her dreamy eyes. 'Muriel 
watched and waited. There was no more music for 
her. Every stroke of the bow cut like a knife into 
her heart. Then came great jubilation, through 
which Stanford sat motionless, his eyes on the vio- 
linist, like one intoxicated. 

Arna hugged her beloved instrument under one 
arm as an adoring circle formed to express their 
rapture. 

Helene Stahr touched Stanford’s arm and spoke 
quietly. He started as from a dream, answered inau- 
dibly, and, looking at Muriel, gave an ecstatic .sigh 
which she only heard. He shook his head, smiled 
as if unable to find words, and rose to open his folio 
of songs. Liszt saw the move and resumed h_is scat. 

“What is it?” asked Muriel, who had not rehearsed 
for the occasion. Stanford handed her the Master’s 
setting of Heine’s lines: 

“Thou art like a beauteous flower, 

So pure, so lovely, so bright.” 

“An appropriate selection,” she obsers'-ed, with a 
nod and smile at Ama. 

“Yes,” said Stanford, indifferently, looking deep 
into her eyes. 

Muriel caught blindly at the first group cf nr tes, 


i86 


‘ ‘J//SS TRAUMEREI ” 


and the song began. So simple, so tender, so unaf- 
fected was it, following the tense nerve-strain of 
Arna’s witchery, that it soothed like sunshine after an 
electric storm. Ivan, avowedly the most appreciative 
of the class, sprang up to say feelingly: “That will 
be a green spot in my memory of the most ex- 
quisite 

“Green, Ivanus?” exclaimed the Master, embracing 
him and Stanford at once. “Green? The color the 
song calls odious?” With characteristic sawlike res- 
pirations, Liszt fell to laughing. 

“May I sing that song, Meister?” asked Stanford. 

“Charming! Charming idea!” he answered in 
French, in accordance with his preference, when sure 
of being understood. 

Observing the grand, seignorlike poise of his head 
after he had dropped lightly into his chair, Marie- 
chen, the complement of Emil, the jester of the class, 
whispered prophetically: “Du lieber Himmel! His 
vitality won’t hold out over to-morrow’s lesson — after 
that! I’ll pay for his dissipation.” 

“Do you play, Fraulein?” inquired von Ilmstedt, 
solicitously. 

Mariechen displayed the whites of her eyes and 
raised her hands despairingly. 

“And you?” she, asked in return. “And you, 
Vilma? And you? Humph!” Again tossing up her 
hands, she brought them together with such a report 
that the Master, thinking it meant for Stanford, began 
to applaud. Mariechen hid her eighteen years of 
self behind the Master’s great chair and tried to swal- 


<^3flSS TRAmiEREl^^ 187 

low her handkerchief as her colleagues smothered 
their mirth. 

Stanford followed MurieFs reckless attack of Schu- 
bert’s spirited song with notes of such flaming tonal 
color that a vocal fibre of hitherto undisplayed beauty, 
roused by the dramatic insistence of his delivery, 
vibrated through the room like an electric current. 

Impelled beyond the limitations of self to the realm 
of the infinite, heads and hearts greeted the inpour- 
ing echoes from abyss and aerial height until a 
boundless universe seemed to resound with joy and 
thanksgiving. Perhaps there was conscious com- 
mand in the refrain — a command of which love made 
an appeal. 

Ade, ade und reiche mir zum Abschied deine Hand, 

To one heart, at least, were they words of both de- 
spair and hope. To the ravished sender only glory 
and endless ecstacy. 

Victor of the day, beyond any they had ever seen 
proudly he stood, a god among men, waiting for the 
final note of accompaniment to acknowledge the 
ovation. 

It was a scene of scenes for even Liszt’s Weimar. 

Arna impulsively caught up her violin, and with a 
word to Muriel they began the Schubert “Serenade.” 
Stanford laughingly resumed his former station, and, 
with a complimentary bow for Arna, sang in English, 
to the passionate thread of obligato, phrases as ex- 
quisitely enunciated as when born in the poet-mind. 
All the resources of their wonderful art came at will 
to the gifted trio. 


i88 


^^MISS TRAUMEREI 


“Heart spoke to heart, touching again with 
poetry hearts as rich in music lore as their own. It 
was a fitting close to an ever-memorable day; a 
tribute to the memory of other days — dead, like the 
hands and voices which made their music. A spirit 
of the past hovered over their young heads — a past to 
which belonged the snow-white head of the aged 
Master whose still youthful spirit met the present in 
just as sweet accord. 

Into the adjoining apartment where these eloquent 
years found record, came the guests, after he had 
gone, with grateful speech and fond farewell. A pen- 
sive humor guided conversation, for, where the depths 
of human hearts have been sounded, the frivolity of 
careless moments finds no entrance; and moments 
like these are sacred to the musician — doubly sacred 
to those whose efforts have inspired each other to per- 
fect unity of thought and action. 

After almost superhuman effort to be conventional, 
Muriel had left Stanford and the Fraulein Stahr. 
Her pride in his success made love, adoration, so holy 
that the mere vision of another became profanation. 

But as she stood by an open window, Rivington 
approached. His refined, poetic expression ap- 
pealed to her, and, surmising his loneliness from the 
eagerness of his greeting, her first thought was to 
enlist Stanford’s interest in the youth. In gladsome 
anticipation of his voice and words, she turned to 
look for Stanford. 

Beyond the threshold of the museum he stood with 
the Trebors, steeped in the witchery of Arna’s up- 


*^ 3 /ISS TRAUMEREr 189 

turned eyes as he bent over her with a devotion which 
Muriel had dreamed only hers. 

Deaf to other sounds, she heard, in fancy, that self- 
same voice — now the voice of a man of middle age — 
saying “Muriel Holme? Muriel Holme? Ah, to be 
sure. What a flirtation I had with her back in 
Weimar, when old Meister Liszt was living, fifteen — 
twenty — humph! — never mind the years — ago.” 

Muriel turned again and looked out of the window. 
“He has never heard me play before others,” she 
reflected; and the day grew brighter. 

“Shall we go out there? It looks cooler,” she said 
to Rivington. “Helene, dear, my countryman is ab- 
sorbed in your collection. When he comes out, please 
tell him that I wish to practice, and have gone on. 
Good-by, Anna. Aufwiedersehen, dears: to-morrow 
evening at the ‘Russian.’ 


CHAPTER XX. 

Frau von Berwitz carried a satisfactory excuse for 
Muriel when she and Stanford went, at Fraulein 
Panzers invitation, to a quiet Sunday evening tea 
with the Countess and her son. When they returned 
the lights were out in the vine-grown gable. 

Muriel was not again visible until summoned to 
dinner the next day. She was radiantly well; Stan- 
ford, a trifle subdued, with less assurance of manner 
and a shadow of reproach in his eyes. The inter- 
change of attitudes flattered Muriel and increased her 
consciousness of reserve power stored for the test per- 
formance at Liszt’s. 

They had sauntered all too leisurely to the lesson, it 
seemed, upon reaching the park gate at the Royal 
Gardens. Snatches of music floated toward them, and 
as they drew nearer they were greeted by friendly 
gestures from an overheated group by the open win- 
dow. 

“I fear the Master is in a bad humor,” said Muriel, 
noting a grotesque shower of treble tones from the 
piano. That Mariechen’s prophecy was fulfilled she 
was assured at the entrance to the salon. 

“Does it give you pleasure to do that?” he said, 
repeating the burlesque. 

“No, Master,” replied a familiar voice. 

“Then what makes you do it?” 

“I thought it right. Master.” 

190 


^^MISS TRAUMEREr^ 19 1 

“Well, it is not! I recommend you to do it so!” 

The speakers were concealed by the crowd, which, 
including privileged visitors and newly arrived pupils, 
numbered thirty or more. 

“Fie! fie! fie!” cried Liszt angrily. “ ^hy stop with 
a dozen false notes, when twenty are just as easy? 
Halt! Try that again!” 

The frightened youth grappled vainly and valiantly 
for the cue to the Master’s lost favor, even when he 
saw him rise in silent disgust and repair to the re- 
motest corner of the room. 

Muriel and Stanford found him, scarlet-faced, bend- 
ing over the writing-desk, in a fruitless quest, smack- 
ing and tasting his lips as usual when annoyed. With 
modified heartiness he extended his usual welcome, 
and said, smilingly, “See how they wilfully harass 
me.” However, with unfailing perseverance, he 
started for the round table. 

“Who plays this?” he asked, catching up a compo- 
sition. 

A dozen paling faces turned askance. “I do, dear 
Master, said poor “Norway,” faintly. 

The eleven fortunates smiled at each other and re- 
gained their normal hues. The first player had re- 
tired in disgrace to the leathern chair by the writing 
desk, the personification of abject misery. Ferreting 
him out, Liszt placed an arm round his shoulder. 
“Come,” he said, leading him in that position to the 
piano, “turn the leaves for ‘Norway.’ ” 

The Master invariably sought means of prompt re- 
dress where his words, however just, caused pain. 


192 


‘ ^MISS TRA U ME RE I 


Therefore “Norway” gained by her colleague’s loss. 
.While mildly impatient in his careful criticism, he 
relieved his pent-up cynicism when beyond her hear- 
ing in one of his excursions about the room. 

“Marie,” he said, demurely, to a renowned ora- 
torio singer. “There is a small railway junction be- 
tween Leipzig and Dresden, named ” 

“Risa, Meister.” 

“Thanks!” he responded, with a sly return of her 
glance. “It boasts a Conservatory of Music. I 
recommend it — for some people.” 

Too self-conscious to join in the ripple of laughter 
passed down to the piano, “Norway” tremblingly 
gathered her music up and faded from sight in the 
dining-room. 

“Now for a game of chance,” said the Master, shuf- 
fling a deck of playing cards into fan shape. “It is 
too hot for sustained effort to-day. August, place 
that new composition of Zarembski’s on the piano. 
They who draw a face card must read a page at 
sight.” 

A bomb could not have created greater consterna- 
tion in the crowded salon. Timid ones slipped behind 
curtains, dropped upon ottomans, or glided into the 
dining-room. The sudden thinning-out, the gasping 
sighs and frightened glances, incited Liszt’s most sar- 
donic humor. The refugees were first sought, Marie- 
chen being pulled from behind a portiere, and Vilma 
from a soliloquy at the dining-room window. Then 
a successful debutante from Berlin stubbornly refused 
to draw. 


^^MISS TRAUMEREI’' 193 

Only the tense silence during the dialogue equalled 
the pitch of Liszt’s fury. 

“So! Humph! Very well! I shall not hear you 
play for a fortnight, if ever again !” 

Naming the order of trial, Moritz, a phenomenal 
Polish virtuoso and extraordinary sight-reader, led 
off. 

Then Mariechen flopped limply into place. 
Though an earnest, promising student, and already a 
concert pianist of modest renown in Thuringia, as a 
prima-vista bungler she was supreme. 

Presaging fun from her serio-comic expression, 
Liszt stood opposite her with encouraging words. 
With a spasmodic facial contortion he signaled her 
to stop. 

“Quick! quick!” Oh, Mariechen, Mariechen!” he 
groaned, “I didn’t think it of you !” Mariechen’s head 
sank lower, until it rested on the piano in hopeless 
chagrin. “Oh! oh! oh! Here, August, extricate this 
lady from her dilemma.” 

Mariechen bounced up, overjoyed to escape the oft- 
recurring duty of butt for Liszt’s ridicule. Yet his 
was not aimless jesting. Therefore, Mariechen was 
heard to plan daily sight-reading , for at each chance 
meeting he cried, “Oh, Mariechen!” adding, “I 
wouldn’t have believed it!” — while, in pantomime, he 
appeared to fly from her. 

Other successes and failures, rousing praise or 
imprecations, ended the trial. 

A beardless novice from Great Britain, however, 
captivated every one in a rigorous d^but. Mollified 


194 


^^MISS TRAUMEREI 


by this worthy acquisition to his class, Liszt, in mov- 
ing about, happened to catch a first glimpse of the 
performer, grimacing in rhythm. With the short 
puffs of laughter peculiar to him, the Master stopped 
before a listening group. “How like a monkey,” he 
whispered. “He recalls the story of an unsuccessful 
photographer who took up dentistry. A patient came 
one day moaning and tremulously pressing his hand 
to his jaw. ‘Now try to look natural!’ exclaimed the 
dentist, cheerily grasping his forceps. ‘Put on a 
pleasant expression !’ ” 

The laughter quickly spread from one group to 
another, in traditional fashion, until it reached the one 
behind the player, just as he left the instrument. 

“It is nothing,” said Ivan, his sponsor, kindly look- 
ing into his frightened eyes. “The Master has been 
telling a funny story.” 

“Oh!” said the boy, and smiled too, for Liszt gen- 
erously applauded and came to advise him. 

“Now, Miss Muriel,” he said, gallantly offering his 
arm. 

“I hope it won’t bore you to hear it again, dear 
Master,” she said, her heart thumping painfully as 
they walked to the piano. 

“Certainly not, dear colleague! Certainly not! We 
will see if it can be improved!” And he moved his 
chair to the side of the room, the crowd opening for 
him a vista to the keyboard. 

Aware of Stanford’s surprised look, Muriel turned 
with apparent calm to her work, though none knew 
better than she the secret condescension felt by the 


‘ ^MISS TRA UMEREI 


195 


average Lisztianer for his sisters-in-art — as a class. 

Few of t.hem, indeed, combined the temperamental 
impulses of the artist virtuoso with the unfailing dig- 
nity of a gentlewoman. 

“The tip of ‘Norway’s’ tongue, held lighdy between 
her teeth, always protruded from the left corner of her 
mouth. 

Round-shouldered Fraulein L. dove incessantly at 
the extremities of the keyboard. 

Fraulein H.’s head nodded like a Chinese idol’s. 

Mile. P. put her cuffs in her pocket and loosened 
her collar. 

Fraulein R. might have executed the famous piece in 
which Mozart struck one note with his nose — or, for 
that matter, any number required, to judge by Liszt’s 
ceaseless admonition, “Don’t stick your nose in the 
keys.” 

Among those who displayed gentle breeding and 
played like scholarly artists, Muriel was pre-eminent. 
Ker attitude never suggested athledcs, nor offended 
by its incongruity. Neither did any love of display 
lead her into shallow or degrading artifices. Like 
Arna, her appearance won half the victory ere she 
sent a thrill through the hearer by the force of her 
interpretative genius. But Muriel’s position at Liszt’s 
had been rather equivocal, owing to the influence of 
AdNe aus der Ohe’s musicianly virtuosity. 

Ivan had said: “There is much in descent. AdMe 
is German; Muriel, American. The latter can, there- 
fore, never be her sister-artist’s equal.” 

But a surprise was in store for Ivan. 


‘ ^MISS trA umerei 


196 

AdMe had not yet arrived. Therefore Muriel 
feared no rival, though she recalled Ivan s statement 
that no woman — excepting, possibly, Sophie Menter 
— could play Liszt’s “Don Juan Fantaisie.” To this 
she had retorted, “There should be no sex in art.” A 
manifold purpose now ruled her determination for a 
crowning success, despite the length of the composL 
tion. Liszt had made some cuts in it the previous 
season, and a winter’s hard practice had made it her 
most eloquent medium for expression and virtuosity. 

The start was like the plunge from a precipice into 
space — the dividing-line between safety and the awe- 
some unknown. Muriel caught her breath, and, 
before she realized it, the familiar notes were secure in 
her grasp and the spirit of mastery hers as certainly 
as in her own work-room. The inspiration lacking 
there, was here the air she breathed. To Stanford’s 
presence she owed the power of endurance ; to love of 
him, the tender grace, the deep, noble sentiment, and 
passionate abandon in delivery. On theme and varia- 
tion she touched in ever-excelling gradation, until, 
soaring to the heights of revelation and immortal 
glory, the crown of greatness was in her grasp. Now 
of the elect in art, she felt her mission accomplished, 
and she waited with bowed head for the dying wave 
of inspired tone. 

There was great demonstration, led by Liszt. Yet 
AdHe, Arthur, Ivan, and a half-dozen others had 
roused similar scenes. The walls echoed and re- 
echoed the great achievements of many years. 

Muriel listened in a half-hearted way to Liszt’s 


‘^MISS TRAUMEREI 


197 


earnest review of her work .and to Ivan’s conip’i- 
ment, “A credit to such a Master, Fraulein”: and she 
waited vainly for some expression of approval from 
Stanford. 

All but the circle of intimates were dismissed ; Liszt 
accompanied Stanford in some songs ; and then, in the 
cool of the evening, he and Arna played Beethoven’s 
“Kreutzer Sonata” in a way to send them all home 
with hearts full of nobler emotions. 

Muriel and Stanford were neither of that age ready 
to fly asunder, wounded to the death by some trifle, 
or to forgive, forget, and join hearts in eternal bliss. 
A barrier, indefinable yet real, had come between 
them. Muriel read it in his non-committal manner 
as they returned through the park, and was irritated 
at the failure of her brilliantly conceived triumph. 
Still under the influence of her daring technical feat, 
she was emboldened to employ Liszt’s habit of simile 
and enforce a response. 

“There is a famous picture,” she said: “T1 Pen- 
seroso.’ ” 

“I have seen it,” remarked Stanford. 

“Why do you reflect its sentiment?” she asked, 
according him a brilliant smile. 

“For having learned to think of you as human,” 
answered Stanford quickly, with a penetrating glance, 
“only to find you a goddess!” 

“Don’t you like goddesses?” said Muriel, her eyes 
snapping mischievously. 

“No! That is, not in the way I know you. Don’t 
you know,” he said impulsively, “don’t you know that 


198 


‘ ^MISS TRA UMEREI ’ ' 


men hate to meet women in the arena for any sort of 
contest but one?” 

"What is that?” 

"Hearts!” 

"Ah!” Muriel caught her breath and looked out 
toward the Ilm. "I thought you believed in the 
equality of rights !” 

do — in theory.” Stanford was compelled to 
laugh at this admission. "But circumstances — certain 
conditions — don’t you know— can make the practice 
— ^peculiarly undesirable.” 

"What has that to do with my having a little music 
in an amateurish way?” inquired Muriel, suddenly 
jumping at conclusions. 

"Everything; for you are no amateur.” 

"Then, what is an amateur?” 

"One who cultivates an art for love of it only, I 
suppose.” 

"Strictly speaking, then, I am an amateur, and will 
never be anything more — unless in adversity,” she 
added firmly. 

Stanford’s face brightened. “Absolutely?” 

“Absolutely,” said Muriel, with decision — “though 
it rob me of the godlike,” she added, with a gay laugh. 

“On the contrary,” said Stanford warmly, in spite 
of a sudden return of roguish humor as their foot- 
falls drew Frau von Berwitz to the terrace rail, “it 
deifies the art you possess.” 


CHAPTER XXL 

Ivan once called the frequenters of the historic 
alcove in the public-room at the “Russischer Hof” 
“The Lisztianer behind the scenes.” When he tired of 
hearing himself quoted, he spoke of “The Oracle of 
Music,” and was lauded — prodigy of intellect as of 
digital skill. 

Even a faintly original or witty saying found up- 
roarious favor with the mercurial spirits who were 
elected annually from the choicest stratum of Liszt- 
ianer by Anna and Helene Stahr, the foundersWf the 
“Corner Table.” The cry, “Ladies and gentlemen! 
Listen to this!” was enough to win the attention of 
all — artists within as well as townspeople without the 
alcove. 

The narration aroused a shrill chorus of Lisztianer, 
reanimated grinning waiters, and sent the citizens 
with pursed mouths and quizzical glances, back to 
gossiping. Voices whirred and soared from early 
until rational bedtime. 

Eleven o’clock at the “Corner Table” was dissipa- 
tion for the Fraulein Stahr. Even ten o’clock brought 
languid “good-nights” from wily youths, lured to un- 
seemlier revels at the “Hotel zum Elephanten.” 

The circle was complete, when Muriel and Stanford 
entered the public- room between eight and nine 
o’clock. 

“A revised and fingered edition of Herr and Frau 
Jack Spratt,” Ivan’s genial voice was declaring be- 


200 


*^MISS TRAUMEREI 


hind the screen which formed the alcove. “Aug’ust 
orders one supper; Anna eats the meat, and he, the 
vegetables.” At this there were gasps of feminine 
laughter followed by general mirth, through which 
a hoarse treble rose brokenly: “Your health, my 
friends; your health.” 

“Anna never raises a glass but to propose a toast,” 
observed Muriel, during a series of clicks and dis- 
jointed “Prosits!” 

“O-o-o-o-oh! My dear! my dear! Mr. Stanford! 
Mr. Stanford! Come right here. Miss Muriel! 
Waiter! waiter! Beer! beer! Quick! quick! Here, you 
fellow; two beers! Hurry up, or you don’t getapenny!” 

The boy reeled off, choking with laughter, and re- 
appeared with two dripping mugs, in time for the 
established first toast. 

“Meister! Meister! Meister! Meister!” rang along 
the circle. 

Anna Stahr reached for her mug, and found three. 
Muriel and Stanford had passed theirs to her, unno- 
ticed. Unabashed, Anna caught them up gleefully 
and sipped at each. This inspired Emil to tell of the 
newl}' made widower who, stopping for refreshment 
on his way from the cemetery, sighed as he paused 
with glass in hand: “Ah! how poor, dear Louise did 
enjoy a good swallow of beer with the foam on it, like 
that!” 

Ivan repeated Rubinstein’s reply when asked if he 
would again make the dreaded voyage to America: 
“Why should I? That my son may drink more 
champagne?” 


^^MISS TRAUMEREI 


20 


Moritz thereupon recalled a story of Rubinstein’s 
early colleague at Weimar, Hans von Bulow, who 
greeted a newly presented musical critic of renown at 
Copenhagen, in this wise: “An impossible nose!” and 
turned on his heel. 

His insolence reminded Muriel of old Professor R., 
in Berlin, who heard his neighbor, the United States 
Minister, whisper to his wife during a performance 
of a Schubert Symphony, “I don’t care for that.” “It 
was not written for red-skins, anyway,” retorted the 
Herr Professor fiercely. 

Fresh supplies of beer floated them into personal 
and duller reminiscences of concert tours. Somewhat 
after this fashion: “Great furore — almost a panic! 
Awfully bad beer! Press ran into ecstatic riot — 
thought of getting out extras — but reconsidered when 
receipts were declared.” 

Arthur, who had foregone the afternoon lesson in 
order to practice, spoke of his mother’s assertion that 
he had, according to strict count, played Chopin’s 
G major prelude just seven hundred times that day. 

“Practice!” the word dispersed the party. No les- 
son to-morrow implied slavery to the piano. 

August and Ilmstedt escorted the Fraulein Stahr. 

“Aufwiedersehen, to-morrow night!” resounded 
through the darkened street; and the two Americans 
sauntered off under the trees in Karl Platz. 

Frau von Berwitz had not yet come in, Gretchen 
told them, between simpers, in her pretty Thuringian 
dialect, when they surprised her in the black archway 
seated beside the outline of a man. 


202 ^^MISS TRAUMEREI” 

“Let us go to meet her,” exclaimed Stanford in 
English. 

When they reached the terrace steps he said : “It is 
pleasant here. She will come this way. Let us 
promenade.” 

A pale soft light, forerunner of the rising moon, 
glanced on the tree-tops and slipped down the rose- 
tangled gable. “Moonlight o’er the earth is stealing,” 
sang Stanford and he fell to humming the “Sere- 
nade.” 

They turned to retrace their steps — gently, not to 
mar the glory of the night. Muriel’s upturned eyes 
reflected the glittering firmament. Stanford averted 
his face, singing again softly. 

All ihe stars in heav’n keep watch, love. 

While I sing to thee ! 

The witchery of the words — the voice, the night — of 
love, pure-hearted and ideal, held them in speechless 
bondage. Alone — the world asleep— soul joined to 
soul in celestial union, oblivious of time— place — and 
the muffled tone of their own unhalting tread. 

A footfall on the terrace — the dream was over! 

Before them bending boughs of exquisite cream 
roses filled the air with fragrance. Stanford culled a 
half-blown bud. 

“Will you take it?” he said, with his heart in his 
eyes. 

Muriel half glanced up, put out her hand, then — 
Frau von Berwitz stopped before them. 


CHAPTER XXIL 

“London” was the postmark on a letter which Stan- 
ford fingered nervously while sipping coffee with the 
two ladies next morning under the plum trees. 

“You have lost appetite, Carl!” said Frau von Ber- 
witz, noticing that he barely touched substantials. 

“More than that,” he replied, after a fourth reading 
of his letter. “I cannot escape it. I must go by the 
one o’clock train.” 

“Which way?” inquired Xante Anna, in alarm. 

“To London.” 

“London!” gasped Frau von Berwitz. 

“A suit involving a large sum of money for a 
client brought me over,” said Stanford, avoiding their 
eyes. “I am wanted in London at once. I may be 
able to return here. I do not know,” he added, after a 
thoughtful pause. “I will try, anyway,” he continued, 
banishing gloom in a sanguine smile and a renewal 
of devotion to both. 

* Hi * 

Yet — he was gone — gone without a parting word 
or glance which Muriel might cherish. 

“Aufwiedersehen?” she asked herself, as Frau von 
Berwitz drove with him to the station. “Aufwieder- 
sehen? Every one says that here!” A taunting voice 
whispered: “Muriel Holme! Muriel Holme! Ah! to 
be sure! What a flirtation we had during old Meister 
Lis.zt’s time — back in the eighties. She must be an 
old woman now — if she is living!” 

203 


204 


‘ ‘MISS TRA UMEREI '' 


“They say it is bad luck to watch people out of 
sight,” said Gretchen, looking up at her from the mid- 
dle of the street. “I am going in.” 

Muriel drew back, blinded by tears. Entering the 
Cloister unseen, she groped the way to her door and 
turned the key in the lock. 

The balm of tears restored her faith in Stanford. 
Love leaped forth to protect him from her own 
doubts — to save her from guilt when bidden — if ever 
— to return trust for trust. Moreover, Muriel was 
too enamored of love itself to relinquish one degree 
of its ethereal consciousness. “He will come again,” 
she promised herself, “if a steadfast heart can draw 
him here! Until then — I believe in him. Yet,” she 
reflected, knowing that sore trials were inevitable, 
“one victory over self leads to another.” 

Resolutely crossing the court, she faltered at the 
threshold of the room where he had sung his way into 
her heart. Its desolation chilled her. Bravely she tried 
her piano, The music was gone — a profanation in its 
discordant responses drove her to the garden. The 
very flowers there seemed hanging their heads in sor- 
row. The sweetness of life was only slumbering — not 
dead. Work was impossible. 

“I will go everywhere now,” said Muriel, reviewing 
the scene once hallowed by his presence: and a sob 
caught her breath. “It will be easier to come here 
next time, perhaps.” 

Returning from the station, Frau von Berwitz found 
her apparently sleeping in an easy chair in the sum- 
mer house. 


<^MISS TRAUMEREI 


205 


“I was waiting for coffee,” exclaimed Muriel, 
brightening spasmodically to hide her feelings from 
Xante Anna, never suspecting the dear woman of hav- 
ing read her secret, through that instinct for romantic 
sentiment characteristic of her nation. 

“Let us take coffee at Belvedere,” subjoined Muriel, 
in quick thought of a place not associated with her 
countryman. “Anything to kill time until I know 
that he is safe in London,” she' reflected. 

“We can ask Fraulein Panzer and Countess von 
Hohenfels to drive out with us, and” — Muriel ac- 
knowledged a second twinge of conscience — “and in- 
vite the Count, Bernsdorf — Rivington — and — and — 
yes, Rivington,” she repeated with homesick longing 
to hear her mother tongue and look upon a compa- 
triot. “The gentlemen can join us later — for supper. 
We will pass the evening there.” 

The drive to Belvedere changed happily the current 
of Muriel’s thoughts. Beyond the villa district the 
leaf-arched way took an easy ascent to the royal estate 
crowning the eminence. Edging a compact low- 
roofed hamlet, a stone’s throw from the castle, a 
shaded refreshment plateau looked far down the 
meadows to the roofs and tree-tops of Weimar cluster- 
ing about the terminus of the serpentine Allee. In 
the background the giant Eltersberg, sentinel of the 
encircling hills, reared its verdant head. 

Weather-wrinkled peasants were rollicking indoors, 
while recreating city folks enjoyed the salubrious air 
and the wide stretch of Thuringian landscape. Here 
coffee was served to them under the trees, Frau von 


2o6 


^^MISS TRAUMEREl 


Berwitz providing homemade cakes from her con- 
venient reticule. 

Urged by wily Fraulein Panzer to walk home by 
moonlight, Muriel unwittingly dismissed the carriage 
before starting to stroll — after the gentlemen had ar- 
rived — through the beautifully ordered private 
grounds at the rear of the residence. The facade was 
purple in the mellow glow as they halted again at the 
opening on the terrace to watch the sun’s posthumous 
glory fade slowly above the Eltersberg. 

Though excursionists had monopolized the garden 
in their absence, a supper-table had been reserved for 
them on the verge of the declivity. 

The odor of new-mown hay floated upward from 
the meadows in the gloaming, reflecting lamps bright- 
ened under the mantle of night, and a male chorus 
clicked glasses to the rhythm of spirited drinking 
songs. Far below the outlined union of black hill 
and starry sky, the lights of Weimar glimmered 
through a canopy of fine silver haze like marshalled 
will o’ the wisps. 

The carousers drove off in wagons with cheer and 
song; isolated groups silently vanished, and the moon 
rose over straggling worshippers of the night. Last 
of all, Muriel’s party turned reluctantly from their 
beloved Thuringian hills to the shadows of the Allee. 

Fraulein Panzer scrambled ahead with Rivington, 
and Bernsdorf walked off with the two matrons in 
almost unseemly haste. 

After sacrificing every other consideration for the 
afternoon and evening to restore their normal rela- 


^‘M/SS TRAUMEREr^ 


207 


tions, Muriel felt herself grow white with annoyance 
at this concerted opposition to her will. To think that 
they could so take advantage of his absence! It out- 
raged the fondest dream of her life. 

Hohenfels’ opportunity to offer himself was, also, 
hers to settle the question for all time. 'Almost 
eagerly she joinqd his lingering pace. 

She felt as if acting in personal defense of Stanford. 
Alert to shield him in every sense, her heart sur- 
rounded him with an armor of affection — that sort 
of affection which finds best expression in a caress 
without words. Looking up almost defiantly, she 
perceived the honest, gentle question in Hohenfels’ 
gaze. 

“What has he promised?” she asked herself in 
thought of Stanford, “that I should fight his battles?” 
“Nothing,” was the sorrowful response. “But I love 
him!” her heart cried out in anguish, and once more 
blind passion steeled her for the coming trial. 

In the half-light the tremulous appeal in her lumin- 
ous eyes stole over him like a spell, and brought her 
name involuntarily to Hohenfels’ lips. 

“Muriel! Muriel!” he whispered, with a new soft- 
ness in his voice. 

“Don’t! Don’t!” she cried, putting out a hand in 
protest, suddenly conscious of desire to spare her old 
friend pain. 

“Why not?” he continued, tenderly. “Can’t you 
see that I love you? I have loved you so long and so 
devotedly, but I could not — I dared not tell you of 
it until I had something more than a heart and name 


2o8 


‘ ‘MISS TRA UMEREI 


to offer you. Now I can honestly come to you and 
ask the question, Will you be my wife?” 

Grasping her hand tightly in his own, he leaned low 
to read the answer in her eyes. 

The right word would not come. She could not 
wound him by anything stilted or commonplace. The 
ticking of her watch rose above the^ receding foot- 
steps. She tried to speak and looked helplessly into 
his eyes. 

Misinterpreting her hesitation, he cried passion- 
ately: “Do you love me, Muriel? Say that you do? 
Really? Yes?” 

“I am so — so sorry,” she repeated, with an effort, 
gently freeing her hand. 

“No — no! You shall not!” he said, drawing her 
nearer. “You are all the world to me. I cannot think 
of life without you. You must love me! Say that 
you do — be it ever so little!” 

He was so unlike other suitors she had known in 
Germany, in his manly sincerity and purity. The pas- 
sionate vibration in his voice made her tremble and 
forget self-imposed obligations. It ravished her 
senses to feel his burning glance and weigh the fer- 
vor of his appeal. Unconsciously she played with 
emotion as if it were a toy. 

Stanford’s face was before her; and they two once 
more alone in the old rose-garden. 

“Muriel!” Hohenfels was now speaking for him- 
self. The vision was gone. Muriel recollected herself 
with a moral shudder. 

“You have no stauncher friend than I,” she said 


^^MISS TRAUMEREl 


209 


quietly, pressing his hand warmly and letting it go. 
“If, by word or look, I have led you to think of me 
in any other relation, I humbly ask your pardon. I 
could not consciously wrong you so much.” 

“You have done nothing. You have merely been 
your own sweet self. I love you for what you are! 
Oh, Muriel! tell me now — do you care for me?” 

“As a friend — after the manner of friendship — ^yes.” 

“No more? No more?” he pleaded, with all the 
gentle, subtle tenderness of his nature. “Could you 
not learn to love me? I would be so patient — so true. 
Try it. Decide at leisure. I will wait — if you will 
only try.” 

“I wish I could — since you wish it!” exclaimed Mu- 
riel, impulsively, with all the frankness and sincerity 
of belief in her firm tones. “It pains a true woman 
to reject the honest, undivided love of a noble, gen- 
erous-hearted man — but it never can be — so.” 

“Why not? A little of your love will suffice me. 
If you will only be my wife, I will be so devoted, so 
faithful, so fond that you will some day give me your 
love.” 

“It is wrong of me to argue,” said Muriel, more to 
herself than to him. “No, my friend ; with all my re- 
gard for you, it is impossible. It was not meant to 
be. Something here tells me so,” she added, placing 
a hand over her heart. “We have been friends — let 
us remain so. You have done me an honor which 
falls to few women. No woman could be more deeply 
touched by it. I cannot say more. It hurts me to 
speak of that which is sacred to our hearts. Let this 


^ lO 


^^MISS TRAUMEREI 


pass, as if nothing had been said, and — and — when it 
is right that it should be so — let us resume our friend- 
ship.” 

Muriel put out her hand. “Shall it be so?” she said, 
in a firm, yet sympathetic voice. Hohenfels was silent 
and as pale as the moonlight touching the fragrant 
meadows bordering the Allee. 

“Listen,” he said at last, and, as he spoke, the color 
crept back to his face and eyes, and his words glowed 
with the eloquence of strong feeling. “This is not a 
mere passing fancy, but the one great, enduring love 
of my manhood. Since knowing you it has grown 
and strengthened, till now it rules my entire being. 
Your image is before me night and day. In the midst 
of active duty on the parade ground, your dear voice 
rings in my ears; its music lulls me to sleep and wel- 
comes the return to consciousness. You are my 
heaven — my all — of this life and that to come. Think 
what you are doing. I love — I worship you! Con- 
sider what that means. Take time. Do not answer 
me now! I will wait. You will see how patient I 
can be if you will only give me one chance of hope. 
Think well,” he exclaimed, passionately. “It is the 
eternal happiness of a man which you have the power 
to make or destroy by a word.” 

“I know,” replied Muriel, deeply agitated by his 
manly appeal, “but — it hurts me to make you suffer 
by saying it, for you will always be the same dear 
friend to me — I can never become your wife! Try to 
forget that you have wished it. Think of me kindly — 
do not make us both unhappy by referring to it 


“MISS TRAUMEREI 


2II 


again. Some day it will be easier for you, and then — 
it will be all for the best, dear friend.” 

As she was speaking, the possibility of a similar de- 
velopment in her own case weighed her heart down 
to breaking. The desolation — the agony of living in 
such a state — appalled her. Pity that another human 
being — an old, tried friend — should suf¥er so, through 
knowing her, overcame her. She looked at him with 
all the compassion in her nature roused to expression. 
Words failed her, and with an uncontrollable sob, Mu- 
riel covered her face with her hands. They were both 
so utterly miserable — the world beyond the shadow 
of the lindens, so sad, and yet so sweet. She had not 
realized until then — until she saw his bared head 
bowed in mute grief before her — how strong the bond 
of friendship had grown — and how was it possible to 
heal the wound she herself had made? 

Muriel composed herself and silently of¥ered her 
hand. Hohenfels took it without lifting his eyes. 

“Is there no hope?” he said, with an effort. 

Muriel shook her head sorrowfully. 

“Good-by! Good-by!” he said brokenly. “Try to 
think of me always as being that which I would like 
to be. Don’t let thought of me make you unhappy. 
I love you so well that I could not bear to have my 
memory bring one pang of regret, or the slightest 
shadow over your life. Let it always be sunshine ; and 
when — when — you are happy in your own land, know 
that the prayers of a faithful friend in Germany watch 
over and protect you!” 

He was quiet, very quiet, for a moment, and all the 


212 


^^MISS TRAUMEREI 


earth seemed listening- in deathlike stillness. “Good- 
by,” he murmured, with the agony of parting in his 
eyes, sinking reverently on one knee and clasping 
her hand to his heart as he uplifted his face in bene- 
diction. “God always guard and keep her!” A stifled 
sob in which there was no relief of tears shook him 
from head to foot. He pressed her hand passionately 
to his cheek, to his forehead, his eyes, and cov- 
ered it with burning kisses. 

Muriel turned away her head, and then, he rose 
quietly, and, without a word, they started down the 
Allee. Near the Royal Gardens they came in sight of 
their companions. 

“Remember,” said Muriel, under her breath, “we 
are friends — for eternity!” 

They clasped hands in one long pressure, and then 
they came upon Bemsdorf and the two matrons. 

“See, Muriel,” observed Xante Anna, pointing to 
the side window of Liszt’s music-room. A student- 
lamp and a familiar head threw a faint silhouette 
against the drawn blind. 

“The dear Master,” responded Muriel, with the 
trace of recent emotion in her voice ; “he is still work- 
ing.” 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


Knowing Muriel’s unhappiness, Tante Anna, with 
feminine art, strove vainly to obtain a definite expres- 
sion of Stanford’s designs. But their letters were in- 
frequent, and soon Muriel was bereft of even the 
small degree of comfort gained by remembering his 
former constancy, for although his hastily penned 
lines bespoke sincerity and hearty regard, it was, may- 
be, only the same regard, Muriel was prompted to 
think oftener than her sense of justice to him ap- 
proved, which he vouchsafed an ever-growing throng 
of adherents. Though devoting, with unfailing cour- 
tesy, several clauses to. her in each letter to Tante 
Anna, once only had he written to her, and then after 
the frank, unaflected manner of his verbal intercourse. 

After fitting intermission she had responded, and 
then came an unbroken, heart-wearying lull. 

Latterly the influx of old pupils and privileged 
guests from abroad had enlarged Liszt’s class to its 
maximum. Muriel, therefore, won temporary im- 
munity from active participation. Frau von Berwitz 
promptly arranged for a brief vacation at Friedrichs- 
ruhe in the pine forests, to which Muriel demurred, 
in the unexpressed belief that Stanford might return 
as abruptly as he had departed. With this in view, she 
carefully instructed Gretchen of her whereabouts, did 
she leave home for only an hour. 

Under such nerve-tension Muriel existed, planning 
diversions for each day, binding herself to nothing 

213 


214 


‘ *MISS TRAUMEREI 


which restricted freedom. The ever-hopeful present 
was her support. The future ? 

“The fourth Thursday since he went,” she mused, 
early one morning, at breakfast in the old rose-garden. 
“Three weeks and two days since he said “Aufwieder- 
sehen!’ ” 

“Still no word from our American,” remarked 
Gretchen for the fourth successive morning, uncon- 
sciously employing her own appellation for Stanford 
— revised for outside gossip — as she came with the 
first mail. 

“What is the day of the month?” inquired Tante 
Anna, looking up from her paper. 

“The second,” answered Muriel, quickly. “Why, 
Tante Anna,” she continued, brightening as if grate- 
ful for the reminder, “Saturday, ‘July Fourth,’ will 
be our great American national holiday. Let us 
celebrate it — here — no — in the house — for the Meis- 
ter must come, and he would take cold here — and we 
must have music, too — the pianos.” 

Muriel developed her plans with feverish intensity. 
Had it been a wise precedent to establish she would 
gladly have made her colleagues her daily guests at 
the suburban pleasure resorts during the past weeks; 
but equality of being and doing was a tradition of 
these summer gatherings at Weimar, and Muriel con- 
formed silently, though impatiently, to the routine 
amusements of her circle. 

She had not seen Hohenfels since the eventful 
night at Belvedere. He was popularly supposed to fre- 
quent Bad Berka, an adjacent resort, where his mother 


^‘MISS TRAUMEREI 


215 


and Fraulein Panzer were staying’ for a short time. 

Rivington, however, had become so devoted in his 
friendship, that Tante Anna jocosely referred to them 
as “the Holme-Rivingtons.” Undaunted thereby, 
Muriel felt a new independence in accepting the escort 
of her youthful countryman to the “Corner Table,” 
and to every haunt of the clique centered by Anna 
and Helene Stahr, who, if conspicuous at times, were, 
nevertheless, interesting, instructive, and always 
kindly disposed. Consequently, Rivington being the 
only other American then with Liszt, Muriel sent him 
a note proposing that invitations to the national cele- 
bration go out jointly in their names. Following 
this, Liszt’s verbal promise to postpone the regular 
lesson in order to attend the fete, decided Muriel on 
the final arrangements. 

“Meister dislikes a crowd,” she said to Tante Anna. 
“I shall ask only the pupils and, of course, the Frau- 
lein vStahr. Why can’t I invite Alvary? One out- 
sider will make no difference, and then he goes so 
soon to America, it would be a sort of ” 

“Beginning with the people,” suggested Frau von 
Berwitz. 

During the midday dinner, a messenger from the 
Royal Gardens came with a note for Muriel in the 
Master’s unique hand. 

“My honored colleague : 

“Be not too extravagant in your feast. Have- 
punch — cake — sandwiches? No — that is too much. 
Otherwise I really cannot come. Remember, then — 
punch— cake— and perhaps a glass of red wine or a 


2 i 6 ^^MISS TRAUMEREr^ 

little cognac for the old Master. No more. Your 
devoted F. LISZT.’’ 

Muriel’s tardy arrival at the lesson next day con- 
firmed the Master’s belief in her contemplated ex- 
travagance. 

“To-morrow is the grand fete! Cake — punch! 
Remember — no more! And yet — a little music. Yes! 
Before all things we must have ‘Yankee Doodle’! 
Nah. Play it for us— now!” 

Though somewhat disconcerted, Muriel accepted 
the words in the friendly spirit of their utterance, and 
dashed off the giddy measures at a rattling pace. 

“Yan-kee — Doo-dle!” sang the Master under his 
breath, at each recurrence of the name ; then mouthed 
the ensuing words, as he swung his head from side 
to side in rhythm with the music, his features alive 
with glee, and his right hand beating time as for a 
grand orchestra. “Brava — ^brava! Famous!” 

“Ah! An idea!” 

Levelling his index finger at Arthur, he shook it 
with a sober expression. 

“A task — for you! Yes — Arthur must do it. Take 
the theme ‘Yan-kee — Doodle,’ and make of it a fes- 
tival piece for to-morrow! Much can be done in 
twenty-four hours,” he added, at signs of a demurrer. 
“Two pianos! Something — grand! And — ah, yes — 
A-me-ri-ka — must play it with you.” Turning a 
searching glance, his eye fastened on Rivington. 

“Yes, Master,” was the happy response. 

“Further,” and the Master turned to Muriel. “Do 
you chance to know Rubinstein’s variations on ‘Yan- 


‘ ‘MISS TRA UMEREI ” 217 

kee Doodle’? No? They are dedicated to your 
William Mason, too. Capital things — capital! Only 
one fault — a trifle long.” 

“Something like fifty-three pages, I believe,” ob- 
served Rivington. 

“Just so,” said the Master, laughing with him. “I 
believe they are published in Leipzig. Have them 
to-morrow — and — each one shall play a variation at 
sight. 

A wave of general consternation swept over every 
face. 

“They are beastly things to play — let alone read at 
sight,” growled Emil,- to be overheard by all except- 
ing the Master, who was saying, “Have a little more 
music. You play something,” he indicated Muriel, 
“and Arthur — and — not you, Mariechen. .Oh, no — 
you haven’t retrieved yourself yet,” and the patriarch 
paused to have the laugh on his offending pupil. 
“But — Alfred shall play, instead. And now, to work!” 

Listening with unusual indulgence to the automatic 
precision of “Old Counterpoint,” whom he had re- 
christened upon first acquaintance, Liszt suddenly 
changed countenance, tapping his forehead with evi- 
dent satisfaction. 

“Where is my little Baedecker?” he inquired, ris- 
ing and leaving the piano. 

“Here, Meister,” laughingly answered Muriel, who, 
as bureau of general information to the Master, 
had long borne the soubriquet. 

“We must commemorate the festival with a pic- 
ture — a group,” softly said Liszt, moving aside. 


2i8 


^'MISS TRAUMEREV^- 


“I will have the photographer at the house on Sat- 
urday,” responded Muriel. 

The Master puckered his mouth and stroked his 
chin in dissent. 

“Better not,” he murmured, with a significant smile. 
“We don’t want any — any other ladies in it, do we? 
Just you, Rivington, and — my poor self. Let it be an 
— American group.” 

Muriel could scarcely credit her senses for a mo- 
ment. The honor which he had volunteered was one 
accorded, to the best of her knowledge, to scarcely 
more than a half dozen of his most celebrated pupils. 

Leaving her gasping for a fitting word of thanks, 
the Master shuttled back to his place at the piano, 
laughing immoderately at his final remark, “Let it be 
an — American group.” 

As Muriel and Rivington lingered a moment after 
the lesson, Ilmstedt, who was passing slowly out, 
overheard the Master say to them: “To-morrow, you 
see — your fete day — is just the time. Meet me at 
Held’s at eleven; and — you, Amerika— will perhaps 
come and walk down with me?” 

“Indeed, Master, I can’t permit you to walk. I will 
have a carriage here.” 

“No, no! Remember — no extravagance! Without 
a carriage. We walk to Held’s.” 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

Saturday dawned behind clouds as far as little 
Weimar was concerned. As he came up Marien 
Strasse, at ten o’clock, to fetch the Master, Riving^ton 
stopped in at the hostler’s to order a carriage at the 
Royal Gardens a half-hour later. 

“Tes,” drawled Menke, as he stood, hat in hand, 
running his fingers through his hair, “but Herr Doc- 
tor sent Mischka down early to say I was not to let 
you have a carriage, in case you came for one.” 

“Ah — leave that, Menke, I’ll bear the blame. See, 
it’s beginning to sprinkle now. He can’t walk in the 
rain.” 

“Very well, Herr Rivington, if you will give that to 
him as an excuse, why I’ll hitch up at once.” 

The Master had not yet risen from the early nap 
which always followed his breakfast when Riving- 
ton reached the Royal Gardens. 

Mischka, quite refreshed in appearance and good- 
natured, was writing at his square table facing the 
great open window. 

“Well?” said Rivington, questioningly. 

“All goes well,” said the servant. “I don’t be- 
lieve any one has heard of it; and Herr Doctor got up 
well disposed this morning.” 

“God be praised!” said Rivington, with a sigh of 
relief. “Mischka! Mischka! Look!” Ilmstedt had just 
appeared in the distance, coming up Marien Strasse, 

2 9 


220 


<^MISS TRAUMEREI 


“Ya — Ya!” said the Hungarian, with a wise nod. 
“But he won’t get in. I’ll tell Pauline.” With that 
he dashed down the stairway. “She’s on the watch,” 
said he, reappearing. “Nobody will get past her. 
Do’nnerwetter!” 

Mischka had heard a sound from the salon. Tear- 
ing open the dining-room door he vanished in his 
usual headlong way to answer the Master’s call. 

A moment later a murmur of voices preceded their 
entrance to the dining-room. With his right 
hand the Master was brushing his long, snowy hair 
back from his face, and Mischka was supporting him 
by his left arm, as Rivington came forward with his 
morning greetings. 

“Amerika!” articulated the Master, with much de- 
liberation, extending his hand with a sleepy smile. 
“Nah,” he interrupted his walk to conceal a huge 
yawn. “Suppose you get the last ‘Musikalisches 
Wochenblatt’ from the table, in there,” he said, indi- 
cating the salon, “and read me the news while I am 
being shaved. 

Sinking into an ordinary straight-backed chair by 
the dining-table, the Master stretched out his feet, 
interlaced his fingers across his waistcoat front, threw 
back his head, and closed his eyes. 

Mischka had all the appliances ready, and went 
rapidly to work. 

“Well, what is there new?” 

“Not much. Master.” 

“That is old.” 

“Well,” said Rivington, with a short laugh; and, 


^^MISS TRAUAJERET” 


22 1 


bracing himself against the arm of an easy chair, he 
began to read to the scraping monotone of Mischka’s 
razor: 

“Musical Jottings” — “Johann Schmidt, an excellent 
pianist, gave a concert of modern and classical compo- 
sitions last Monday evening before a numerous audi- 
ence in the grand hall of the Hotel de Rome. The 
young man — for he has not yet attained his nine- 
teenth year — is the possessor of unusual natural en- 
dowments, and displayed, especially in the Rigoletto 
Fantasie from Liszt, remarkable digital facility, cou- 
pled with ” 

“That is original!” interrupted the Master; and 
Mischka had to suspend work to allow a chuckle of 
amusement. 

Rivington ran his eye down the column. “Ah, 
yes! The venerable Meister Liszt attended a concert 
given by one of his pupils, Fraulein Marie ” 

“Mariechen!” interposed the Master. 

“Fraulein Mariechen Bilbach,” said Rivington 
gravely, noting the correction to the interruption of 
Mischka’s task. When the Master had recovered 
from the spasm of laughter, Rivington continued, 
“in Suiza. Of course the great man’s presence insured 
the young artist a crowded house, and she returned 
to Weimer the richer by several hundred marks.” 

“So! Well — something different,” observed the 
generous spirit who scorned reminiscences of his 
beneficence. 

“John Bull and ^God Save the Queen,’” read the 
pupil from the other page.” 


222 


‘^MISS TRAUMEREr^ 


“Bull — Bull — ‘John’ Bull. A good substantial 
name!” observed the Master, with dry humor. “Bull!” 

“An English writer has undertaken to prove Dr. 
John Bull, an eminent organist, born in 1563 (d. 1628 
in Anvers), the composer of ‘God Save the Queen.’ ” 

“Ah — let us have that!” exclaimed the Master. 

Whilst Rivington was in the midst of the long 
story the wheels of a vehicle grated on the gravel 
before the house door. 

“What! Didn’t you give Menke my order?” 

“Certainly, Herr Doctor,” replied the valet. 

“My fault, Meister,” said Rivington. 

“I shall walk,” was the firm retort. 

“But, Meister, it rains.” 

“Not much,” he replied, with a show of relenting, 
and he rose to look at the weather. “Well, I’ll join 
you in a few moments.” 

Ilmstedt was not discouraged by Pauline’s refusal 
to admit him to Liszt’s apartments. As his sole pur- 
pose was to throw himself in the way, and thus con- 
nive for an invitation to join the group and be photo- 
graphed, he resolved to be at the atelier, as if by 
chance, when the trio arrived. He had jealously 
guarded their secret; perchance a fifth might swell 
the party and injure his own opportunity. Yet, in 
retracing his steps, by happy accident he thought of 
Ivan, who disapproved of every new-comer, regard- 
less of his musical status. Pie had been photo- 
graphed with the Master the previous year, and 
might, therefore, render valuable aid of some sort — 
as yet undefined in Ilmstedt’s mind — especially as Ivan 


*^MISS TRAUMEREr^ 223 

illy concealed his jealousy of Rivington’s favor with 
the Master. 

“To think of that upstart being immortalized in 
such a way!” he answered Ilmstedt in a rage. “An 
honor which but few of Franz Liszt’s greatest pupils 
have won! Come! I will be there with you!” 

“Held,” said Ivan, finding the photographer alone, 
“you have a group on to-day?” 

The man elevated his shoulders and eyebrows 
questioningly. 

“Oh, come. I know all about it!” 

“Herr Ivan!” responded Held, who had been sworn 
to secrecy. 

“I will give you one hundred marks in advance,” 
said Ivan, coming nearer and lowering his voice, 
“if you will smash the plates after they are taken.” 

“Never, Herr Ivan!” 

“But, Ivan, not if I am on them!” gasped Ilmstedt. 

“Shut up, you fool.” 

“Two hundred, Held, two hundred marks!” 

“Not in eternity, Herr Ivan; one act against the 
wishes of the good old Master, who has done so much 
for me!” 

“Then you admit it is the Master?” 

The alarm-bell rang as Muriel and Frau von Ber- 
witz stepped into the atelier. 

“Most excellent!” exclaimed Ivan, eyeing a large 
new photograph of Liszt, which had that day been"* 
hung up. 

Before the greetings were ended, the carriage from 
the Royal Gardens had halted without. 


224 


<^MISS TRAUMEREI 


Held rushed bareheaded to the curb, and returned, 
supporting the Master on his arm. 

“Everything is ready,” he said; “I shall detain you 
but a moment.” 

After some little dispute as to position, they were 
taken — Liszt seated before an upright piano, with 
Muriel at his side a trifle to the rear, watching his fin- 
gers wander idly over the keys, and Rivington, with 
one arm resting upon the instrument, stood looking 
down at the Master. 

“Capital!” shouted Held, in glee. “Have patience 
just a moment longer, Master,” cried Held anxiously, 
as he shifted the sides. “Now! Ready? — There! Ah!” 

At that moment, as if to catch a glimpse of the 
group ere broken, Ivan, who, with Frau von Berwitz 
and Ilmstedt, had been asked to stand behind a por- 
tiere, appeared in the archway dividing the two rooms. 

An awkward step — a frightful crash — and Ivan, 
with flaming cheeks, stood facing Held across the 
prostrate form of the camera. Together they raised 
it into place, and Held tremblingly inspected the ap- 
paratus. 

“Ivanus!” ejaculated Liszt, recognizing the mis- 
creant with paternal indulgence; and, did he surmise 
design on the part of his fiery pupil— as the Ameri- 
cans believed — he never revealed it by word or glance. 
A sunbeam abruptly pierced the gray light of the 
atelier and silvered the whitened locks of the old 
Master. “Ah!” he exclaimed, with a movement to 
shade his eyes, “the day is yours, Amerika!” 

“The day — but I fear not the picture, dear Meis- 


’^3f/SS TRAUMERE/” 


225 


ter,” responded Muriel, with a disappointed glance 
at the photographer’s unhappy face. 

“Both,” he calmly replied. “We will sit again!” 

“Meister,” exclaimed Muriel,” with fresh interest, 
“I was thinking as I came from your house yesterday 
what an ideal scene that daisy-flecked lawn, up by 
the hedge, behind the Allee gate, would make for a 
photograph. It has sprinkled lightly ; I don’t believe 
the grass would be wet.” 

“Charming idea! Charming idea!” And rising has- 
tily Liszt said sotto voce to Rivington: “See that 
Held and his apparatus come with you in a droschke.” 

Whenever Rivington, in after years, recalled this 
famous celebration of the American “Fourth” on the 
historic soil of Saxon Weimar, two incidents led the 
procession of crowding memories. 

The first came before his mind’s eye as a memor- 
able picture: — 

Frau von Berwitz stood in the small drawing- 
room listening to a desultory conversation between 
Arthur and Liszt. 

“Yes,” said the Master, “I heard that you played 
the Chopin Preludes and the entire set of Paganini 
Studies in your first recital in Berlin. A feat — not 
for the masses — but for you, and I honor you for it!” 

Frau von Berwitz was a smiling witness of the 
young man’s joy at such rare praise from Liszt, who 
had been to him a most exacting disciplinarian for a 
decade. Her spontaneous pleasure gave an abrupt 
though graceful turn to the drift of thought. 

“Dear Meister,” she said, “let me' kiss the hand 


226 


^^MISS TRAUMEREI 


which has made so much beautiful music for the 
world;” and with a quick movement she raised it to 
her lips. 

The Master with courtly ease grasped both her 
hands warmly and, in his accustomed way, imprinted 
an acknowledgment upon her forehead. 

But the music — all combined, in fact — was second- 
ary to Rivington’s solicitation about his speech. He 
was toast-master and had to say it all in German. It 
wasn’t much, to be sure, for little Fritz — who was on 
a visit to his grandmother from Berlin — had been 
able to memorize it, though apparently absorbed in a 
story book, as the household worked to compose it 
the night before in the drawing-room. 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the youth had heard a 
piping voice proclaim outside the great open door of 
Muriel’s music-room, where he sat alone in reverie, 
after Held’s triumph with his camera, at the Royal 
Gardens. “Ladies and gentlemen, in my country’s 
name I thank our greatly-honored and dearly-be- 
loved blaster for the honor which ” 

“Fritz — Fritz! How dare you!” shouted Frau von 
Berwitz from an upper window. Then he heard 
hers and Muriel’s muffled laughter as four pair of 
small boots rattled the gravel in their scampering 
flight down the garden walk. 

“Dearly beloved Master” rang in his ears. “Ge- 
liebter” was the German of it, and it was very like 
“verliebter,” which means that one is very much in 
love. “What should I do,” he had said at rehearsal, 
“were I to be confused and say verliebter Meisterr” 


^^MISS TRAUMEREI 


227 


“Herr Rivington — Herr Rivington, you must not 
even think of such a thing,” said Frau von Berwitz, 
trying to keep a sober face, “as sure as you do, you 
will say it to-morrow.” 

But he didn’t, and the Master was highly com- 
plimentary and responded with “Amerika!” 

The floral decorations and feast were not in accord- 
ance with Liszt’s admonition of economy, but he 
yielded without a dissenting word, possibly forgetting 
his threat in the diversion which Arthur’s arrangement 
of “Yankee Doodle” had created. 

“Suppose you repeat that!” he said to Arthur and 
Rivington, from his place between them at the two 
pianos. The introduction, without a trace of “Yankee 
Doodle” in it, had been a most majestic, Olympus- 
scaling mass of harmonies. After its repetition, 
which Liszt followed with a serious countenance and 
an occasional nod of approval, one of the pianos 
trolled out the familiar breakdown. “Yan-kee-Doo- 
dle,” repeated the Master, but he soon had to stop it, 
for the changes grew wilder and more startling. Fie 
exclaimed with delight at the climax and led the as- 
sembly — the two pianists included — in a crescendo 
of laughter, as the closing chorus from Beethoven’s 
Ninth Symphony sprang up against “Yankee Doodle” 
— above a reverberating bass — the “Bell Theme” 
from Wagner’s sacred music-drama, “Parsifal.” 

It was a clever hodge-podge, with merits on which 
the Master descanted in detail. 

After all, the greatest sport of the day came with 
reading at sight Rubinstein’s Variations, and not the 


228 ‘ ^MISS TRAUMEREI 

least of it was furnished by Mariechen — Mariechen 
Bilbach, who had hidden herself behind one of the 
heavy curtains in the library. Here the Master found 
her in his search for deserters. 

would much better have left you there, Marie- 
chen,” said Liszt with a comical sigh, as she ceased 
mincing the variation allotted her. 

“Here! Moritz,” he said to the young Viennese, 
who surpassed them all as a sight reader, “this lady is 
in trouble. Be gallant.” 

There was other music. Muriel, Arthur and Al- 
fred played, and then Liszt drove home. 

It was a pretty sight, as his open carriage wound 
its way through the narrow, crooked street, to witness 
the homage of the common folk. The laborer in 
coarse blue homespun stood aside with his burden 
and doffed his hat ; the schoolboy ceased his antics to 
uncover his tumbled curls, and to each the aged Mas- 
ter touched his hat and returned a smile. 

Music still floated from the open windows of the 
old mansion. Arthur was playing Liszt’s Rhapsody 
No. 2. The composer was seen to turn his head 
slightly and say something to the three boys who 
were accompanying him home. 

“Why is it never played in the lesson?” asked Riv- 
ington of Muriel. 

“Meister is tired of it.” 

“Nevertheless,” interrupted Alfred, “it is the best 
of his rhapsodies.” 

Faithful to the custom of exclusive circles, the 
guests fell off after the order of recedence, until Mu- 


^^MISS TRAUMEREI'’ . 229 

riel was left combating the insistent wiles of the “In- 
ner Circle” to drag her to the “Russian” for the even- 
ing. She felt like a traitor in neglecting the memory 
of Stanford for an entire day, but consented reluc- 
tantly to join her comrades for an hour. 

The house was quiet, and Tante Anna was dozing 
in an easy chair in the dimly-lighted drawing-room 
when Muriel returned. 

“Is that you, Muriel?” 

For answer Muriel sank down on an ottoman at her 
feet and laid her head in Tante Anna’s lap. 

“What! Crying? Dear child, you are quite ex- 
hausted;” and the matron stroked her hair tenderly. 

Muriel shook her head without speaking. 

“Well, what has happened to you, dear?” 

“Rivington — he — ” said Muriel, with a muffled sob. 

“Oh, I see,” exclaimed Tante Anna. “Rivington 
has declared himself! I have seen it coming. Silly 
boy ! He ought to have known better.” 

“It was bad taste, I know,” sobbed Muriel. 

“I referred to the difference in your ages, my child.” 

“I am really very advanced,” retorted Muriel, laugh- 
ing with Tante Anna in spite of her tears. 

“Arna said, too,” she continued brokenly, “that 
Ivan is jealous of every man who looks at me, and 
is only waiting for an opportunity to insult poor 
Rivington, in order to give him a good pummelling. 
He would kill him with those great fists of his. You 
know he can strike four notes over an octave.” 

Tante Anna became almost hysterical, but Muriel 
talked on with the tears in her eyes. 


230 


<‘M/SS TRAUMEREI 


“That — other one — had to first spoil our delightful 
friendship by his — his indiscretion,” said Muriel, 
seeking a suitable phrase in compassionate thought 
of the man who loved her best of all. His last words 
haunted her night and day: “God forever guard and 
keep her!” Once more they were alone in the dim 
shade of the lindens; his sad upturned eyes seemed 
penetrating her deepest consciousness; his passionate 
kisses thrilled every nerve-fibre. Muriel threw her 
arms about Tante Anna to save herself from the 
memory. Had she not said to him: “It can never 
be.” What folly to indulge such thoughts. But 
he loved her and was true, and her life was blank 
without love. Where was Carl? Had he no ten- 
derness in his heart for her?” 

Tante Anna smothered her laugh to find Muriel so 
desperately serious; but a mirthful outbreak was inev- 
itable as Muriel added : “All the men I like are handi- 
capping my freedom. If they keep on like that I 
sha’n’t have a friend left!” 

“There is Carl, my dear!” 

“No danger from him!” replied Muriel promptly. 
Then her heart began to beat so violently that she was 
embarrassed for words. 

“There — there — don’t cry any more, dear!” said 
Tante Anna soothingly, sobered by the fear that she 
had gone too far in her last statement. 

“True patriotism caused it,” observed Muriel, smil- 
ing through her tears. “The sky didn’t do it’s duty 
to-night;” and she pointed to the starry light without. 
“It always rains the Fourth of July in our country.” 


CHAPTER XXV. 

Muriel had such a dislike for hysterical women 
that she was greatly disturbed by her own lately 
developed tendencies. Sunday morning she awoke 
with a determination to make every effort to regain 
her own self-respect, and she resolved, moreover, that 
the rest of her stay in Weimar should be a silent 
apology to Xante Anna for all the anxiety she had 
given her. 

Being naturally introspective, however, Muriel 
could not help becoming more or less absorbed in 
what she considered the complications of her present 
life. They interested her this morning like the intri- 
cate features of a difficult piano piece. 

Must she, indeed, pay a lifelong penalty for one 
brief week of bliss? She tried to look at Stanford’s 
attitude philosophically. In either case, might not 
disappointrnent be inevitable? 

Did not ardent love matches end, as a rule, in con- 
jugal misery? “Romanticists,” some one had written, 
“should begin a novel with marriage.” “Could that 
ever become my romance?” she asked, turning from 
the piano in the direction of Hohenfels’ miniature 
field of action. 

“God forever bless and keep her!” sobbed the voice 
of her friend. The scene changed. At her feet, in the 
dim shadows of the lindens, he knelt, a figure of dig- 
nified, if abjectest despair, and beyond them stretched 
the silent moonlit meadows. The breath of new- 

231 


232 


^^MISS TRAUMEREI 


mown hay touched her cheeks. In measured chime 
the palace clock announced the hour. 

Muriel recovered herself with a nervous tremor. 

“I may be compelled to sail without revisiting Wei- 
mar.” A simple clause in the letter, but just received 
by Tante Anna, recurred with stinging force. Muriel 
sprang to her feet, proudly erect, as if to face an in- 
tentional affront. At that moment mild-eyed Gret- 
chen, bareheaded, and in an ancient bedraggled mili- 
tary great coat, paused, with muddy palms, outside 
the open doorway. 

“Even the skies weep over his long absence,” she 
said, in her musical dialect, placing her arms akimbo 
to turn her face to the warm, soft rain. The incon- 
gruity of her poetic thought and grotesque appear- 
ance brought an involuntary smile to Muriel’s flash- 
ing eyes. 

“Has Hans gone again?” 

“Ach, FrMein, Ach!” Gretchen collapsed with a 
spasmodic giggle, and headed for the exit. 

With a sense of suffocation Muriel stepped upon 
the threshold, extended her palms to the rain and 
pressed them to her flushed face. Each cool touch 
seemed helping her to still reviving memories; she 
saw that the whole place was redolent of a morbid 
past; she longed to exchange the walled garden for 
the freedom of the hills. They, at least, looked off 
somewhere — out into the world, away from heart- 
breaking sorrow. Yet, gazing, in fancy from the 
heights, upon the little city, she could have gathered 
it all tenderly in her arms to implore forgiveness for 
that one moment of infidelity. 


*<MISS TRAUMEREr* 


233 


Wo mein Herz und mein Lied sind, 

Da bin ich zu Haus’. 

Abt’s song rang in her ears. 

Hastily equipping herself for a walk, she was down 
the long path and at the street door ere she noted the 
muffled thunder of the troops marching from church. 
The sound appealed to her. It belonged to the happy, 
visionary period of her life. An echo of its former 
inspiration prompted Muriel to watch for familiar 
faces. 

“Not one,” she mused, with an overpowering sense 
of desolation. 

The street was deserted. The rain trickled a 
mournful monotone from jutting eaves. “Anything 
but midsummer in town,” she continued. “One day 
like another — and each like the day after the funeral !” 

The palace loomed up like a sepulchre in the mist. 
The sentry gloomily measured his solitary paces be- 
fore the guard-house. 

“God forever bless and keep her!” 

The stirring refrain greeted every uniform. Muriel 
stopped, perplexed. She did not actually wish to see 
Hohenfels. He was in Bad Berka to-day, but the 
knowledge of his absence made the town lonelier. 
To avoid the military quarter, she turned into the 
mediaeval streets, where the presence of homely 
groups in deep doorways and beflowered windows 
brightened her course to the Belvedere Allee. 

As she ascended from the park lowlands, an hour 
later, near the historic “Tea House” — a Goethean 
creation in Greek architecture — a great-coated officer 


234 


^‘AflSS TRAUMEREI 


coming out from a shrub-hidden path suddenly inter- 
cepted the way. 

“I beg pardon,” he cried, with an apologetic salute, 
springing aside for her to pass. 

“Oh!” exclaimed Muriel, with a slight gasp, timidly 
offering her hand. “Good-morning!” 

“I — I was going your way,” stammered Count von 
Hohenfels irrelevantly, grasping her hand in evident 
confusion. 

“Oh!” 

“I was only walking for — companionship,” he said, 
catching desperately at the last word. 

“Oh!” 

This final reiteration brought Muriel to herself. 
“Can I say nothing but ‘Oh’? Hell think me de- 
mented because — because of Carl” 

As they came opposite the Royal Gardens they saw 
the Master leaning from an open window and con- 
versing with two women before the house. 

“Ah, yes! I forgot to say,” mumbled Muriel, imi- 
tating his diction — “Arna and Mrs. Trebor!” she ex- 
claimed, retarding her steps for a careful look; nor 
did she hasten after acquiring this bit of news — even 
the freshest of news from the Royal Gardens. For 
Time had raised her estimate of Hohenfels’ worth. 

His refined, handsome features and’ distinguished 
bearing impressed her singularly in her half-shy 
glances. 

“Will you come in?” she asked, at the street door, 
looking him at last frankly in the face. “I know that 
Tante Anna will be pleased to see you.” 


^‘Af/SS TRAUAIEREI 


235 


“Thank you ; not now. I dine with comrades at the 
‘Erbprinzen’ in five minutes. As an officer I must be 
punctual. My greetings to Frau von Berwitz. 
Adieu!" 

Grace remarked the happy light in his eyes. 

“Aufwiedersehen!" she said, quickly. 

“Aufwiedersehen !" he responded, with still bright- 
ening countenance, waiting to close the door. 

“Aufwiedersehen I Aufwiedersehen I Aufwieder- 
sehen!" sang unseen voices with every stride towards 
the old Market Square. The day grew brighter. 
“The sun?" he said, and glanced upward. The fine 
warm rain moistened his face and fell in spray on his 
weather coat. There was something friendly to him 
even in that damp touch of the heavens. Were they 
offering congratulations? Happy illusion! 

“What has come over you, old fellow?" asked his 
neighbor, von Jahn, at dinner. “Up at the barracks 
you looked as if you had lost your last friend. An 
hour later you emanate beams of light that would 
turn the sun green with envy, should that curtain of 
mist suddenly lift." 

“Aufwiedersehen!" pealed the unspoken response. 
“Aufwiedersehen! Aufwiedersehen!" sang invisible 
choirs. “Aufwiedersehen!" flamed in giant letters 
against the festive walls. “Aufwiedersehen!" branded 
cloth and plate, and sparkled in the amber depths of 
his glass. 

Futurity smiled at him through “Aufwiedersehen!" 
and every thought melted into the sweetest of ca- 
dences, “Aufwiedersehen!" 


CHAPTER XXVL 


A rubber at whist with Liszt, Arna and Ivan, after 
the lesson on Tuesday afternoon, caused Muriel to 
miss a call from Hohenfels. 

Surmising her disappointment, Tante Anna said 
that he purposed attending, the next afternoon, the 
weekly band concert at the Erholungsgarten — an 
exclusive open-air resort controlled by a union of the 
best social elements of the city. 

Muriel said that she would go, too. Then she 
wouldn’t — she would — she wouldn’t — and finally de- 
cided to go, after recalling a saying that a woman 
never knew her own mind, because she had, at first, 
impulsively accepted Tante Anna’s invitation. 

In a moment of inspiration she posted a note to 
Rivington (who, after his ill-fated proposal, had gone 
to Eisenach), half-commanding him to be of their 
party, adding that he had been too silly to be hu- 
mored, that he must come home and behave like a 
rational boy of nineteen, unless he wished to be re- 
ported to Liszt. 

Foreseeing no quicker cure for his malady, she was 
not surprised to have him ushered, with abashed 
countenance, into the music-room, just as she was 
completing her after-dinner hour at the piano on 
Wednesday. 

“Forgive me,” he said. “I shall prove my gallantry 
by telling you that it was all your fault!” 

236 


‘^MJSS TRAUMEREr' 


237 


‘‘There,” Muriel raised a hand in protest, “that was 
worthy the palmy days of the Altenburg. I don’t be- 
lieve that anything more than pianistic excellence is 
required to make you a worthy Lisztianer of this gen- 
eration !” 

An irresistible laugh put Rivington at his ease, and 
Muriel had gained another friend. 

“Listen!” And gliding across the room, Muriel 
stopped under the rose-canopy at the threshold. 

Music from the Erholungsgarten on the hilltop 
floated sweetly distinct across the Ilm. A single cor- 
net was playing Schubert’s “Serenade.” Day faded 
into night; a shaded lamp filled the room with a rosy 
glow, and the listeners bowed their heads in silent 
rapture. 

“And my heart for thee is yearning; bid it, love, be 
still!” A tremor broke into Muriel’s sober expression 
as the voice sighed its last tender appeal. 

“Bid it, love, be still!” 

Neither Muriel nor Rivington seemed to breathe 
through the soundless pause. 

Sweet mignonette and heliotrope mingled with the 
scent of roses; a bee hummed unnoticed dangerously 
near Muriel’s head. The portentous outline of a 
creeping shadow startled her to consciousness. Her 
heart leaped as if to rend its bonds. She dared not 
look up and betray her joy. A decided footfall on the 
gravel demanded recognition. Catching her breath, 
she turned expectantly. 

Arna Trebor bounded, with a peal of silvery laugh- 
ter, upon the step before her. Muriel’s face was a 


238 


^^MISS TRAUMEREI 


curious study, and Arna remarked it. “I was over 
there,” said Muriel, recollecting herself and indicat- 
ing the Erholungsgarten. Arna knew better, but said 
nothing, and, presently, with her mother and Tante 
Anna, they all went to the concert 

A never-ending stream of promenaders was already 
in possession of the labyrinth ian ways of the garden, 
and infringing upon the territory allotted to coffee- 
drinkers. Tante Anna’s party surrounded a capacious 
table in a latticed summer-house, in full view of the 
animated scene, as Mrs. Trebor feared the slightest 
exposure to cold for her daughter. “Arna must be 
careful,” she said, “being subject to rheumatism in her 
arms, which is fatal to her playing.” 

Four dapper young officers, followed by the admir- 
ing gaze of all the women folk, left the promenade to 
join Tante Anna’s group. They were Count von Ho- 
henfels, and three footlight worshippers of the fas- 
cinating violinist, who eagerly bunched their stools 
in her vicinity, ready to absorb her enthralling smiles 
and chuckle over her sparkling witticisms. 

With consummate tact the Count gave Muriel that 
tender, non-committal deference which some women 
love. 

Rivington showed a disposition to make the best of 
the new order of things in his devotion to the two 
matrons. 

In this friendly harmony Muriel began to expe- 
rience that same subtle thrill of ecstacy which sub- 
lime music gave her after a period of deprivation. 
The strains of the band spoke directly to her soul ; she 


^^MISS TRAUMEREI 


239 


even removed her gloves to enjoy the sympathy of 
her clasped hands. Life’s joys were once more hers; 
the horizon of the future receded to the infinite. 

The convivial glass at length replaced coffee-cups, 
and Xante Anna embroidered industriously to the 
time of tuneful measure. 

A mellow warmth lay in the sun’s dying rays; the. 
incense of flowers stole in through vistas of this fair 
Saxon land, so rich in its music and wit. The souls 
of Goethe, of Schiller, of Herder, of Wieland, and of 
Liszt seemed to animate the scene and enhance those 
salient characteristics which had given little Weimar 
an international renown. 

Muriel reflected with divided affection upon a 
choice of homes. Here, brain and heart throbs met 
unfailing response; over there — his home! Disturbed 
by the sad reminder of sweet days gone, she turned 
to the diversions of a side vista in the arbor, where 
promenaders came up from the valley. 

Suddenly Muriel became deadly pale. 

Hohenfels, with eyes for her face only, said softly: 
“What is the matter?” 

Feigning not to hear, Muriel carelessly studied her 
programme. 

Hohenfels watched the color sweep over her face. 

“How warm, to-day,” she observed indifferently, 
pressing her handkerchief to her brow. 

Hohenfels saw her glance furtively at Frau von 
Berwitz, who hearkened with half-bowed head to the 
music. 

Looking up as a foot scattered the gravel, the 


240 


^^MISS TRAUMEREI 


matron’s eyes rounded in astonishment. Without 
lowering her glance, she deftly shifted the embroidery 
onto the table and left the arbor. 

For some inexplicable reason Hohenfels found 
himself watching her with uneasy interest. He saw a 
procession of boarding-school misses, arm in arm, 
leisurely ascending the promenade. Then a dis- 
tinguished-looking stranger in fashionable London 
attire entered the open space, scrutinizing the gather- 
ing opposite the arbor. 

“Mr. Stanford!” exclaimed Arna and Mrs. Trebor, 
in a breath, as Xante Anna stopped him. 

Hohenfels observed the happiness fade from his 
rival’s face when, after a well-tempered reception, Mu- 
riel gave strict attention to the music, for the slight 
noise of Stanford’s reception had raised a series of 
hisses from without. Even in the ensuing pause 
she delayed only long enough to make some care- 
less inquiries about his unexpected arrival, before re- 
suming conversation with Hohenfels. 

After more music a general scurrying of young 
people towards the assembly-rooms indicated the 
evening programme. Nevertheless, other, groups 
than Xante Anna’s lingered at the tables, when the 
commanding rhythm of the dance and the dull tread 
of feet announced the opening polonaise. A waiter 
camie to take orders for supper, and then they all went 
for a stroll about the grounds. 

Stanford naturally remained at Xante Anna’s side; 
but, upon their return, he laid hold of the chair next 
to the one he had chosen, and offered it to Muriel, 


^‘MISS TRAUMEREI 


241 


“Thank you,” she said graciously, moving up to 
the table. Noticing that there was no vacancy for the 
Count near them, she slipped the chairs closer to- 
gether and made a place for him on her left. 

Balmy twilight merged into as balmy night, and a 
delicate silver crescent rose in the calm blue sky. Dis- 
tant music, descending feet, glasses clinking in tune- 
ful unrhythm, sepulchral “prosits” and soft feminine 
laughter, rose, died and fitfully resounded above the 
ceaseless murmur of many voices. 

When Tante Anna gave the signal to disperse, Ho- 
henfels naturally started off at Muriel’s side. She had 
never once left him out of the conversation, even 
when Stanford attempted to monopolize her. In 
truth, in spite of his direst misgivings about Stan- 
ford’s renewed visit at the old mansion, Hohenfels 
found himself thinking with involuntary pride of Mu- 
riel’s unwavering partisanship. 

After bidding the Trebors good-night in the 
shadow of the darkened palace, he accompanied her 
to their door. At their approach Gretchen’s Hans 
sped out of the black arch and hobbled away over the 
rough paving. 

“Thuringia was created for lovers,” observed Stan- 
ford, looking after him as they came to a halt, and 
Muriel, glancing up at Hohenfels with a happy “Gute 
Nacht,” added “Aufwiedersehen!” 

Then a wing of the great door suddenly fanned 
Tante Anna’s face as Gretchen’s musical giggle and 
light, tripping step receded towards the inner court. 
Stanford tarried to turn the great key and bar the 


242 


MISS TRAUMEREI 


door, but Muriel went on to help the maid light the 
lamps in the vestibule. 

“Oh, no! Not yet!” exclaimed Stanford, coming in 
with a vexed expression, to find her, lamp in hand. 

“You need rest.” 

“I assure you, I do not,” he insisted, earnestly. 

“You are too polite to admit it,” retorted Muriel, 
with a gay laugh and a shake of the head. “Good- 
night! Good-night, Tante Anna!” 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

“Of course you are glad!” said Gretchen in an 
anxious whisper. “Haven’t you told the whole neigh- 
borhood by this time? Go ’way! Go ’way! Sh! Sh!” 
With a vicious flap of her apron at the sparrows cir- 
cling above her head, the maid ran for a mop. 

“To the fountain! Over there — by the church. 
You’ll get enough to drown you there — and 
I hope you will, too!” Rubbing vigorously at 
the droppings from the pump, Gretchen gave a final 
“Sh!” and, lifting the watering pot, she crossed the 
court muttering: “Of course you are glad; we are 
all glad he has come; but this is no time to serenade 
him! Why, it’s a half-hour early for even me, you 
stupids !” 

“Mariechen,” toddling eagerly from the round 
apron to smother her cries, and, closely followed by 
the mother, rebounded into the garden. 

Gretchen, springing back, rolled the baby into her 
apron to smother her cries, and rebounded into the 
garden, closely followed by the mother. 

“Ach! Mein Gott! Mein Gott! You — miserable — 
Oh, Frau Schulze, Frau Schulze,” gasped poor Gret- 
chen, with tears in her eyes, that — that ” 

“Here, take her away!” the mother said placidly to 
Elsa. 

“It all comes of my getting up before-times to have 

everything nice for him, too!” mourned Gretchen. 

243 


244 


<^MISS TRAUMEREI 


“How is he?” inquired the neighbor, fumbling in a 
capacious pocket for her knitting. 

“Just beautiful!” exclaimed Gretchen, suddenly for- 
getting her sorrows; and placing her arms akimbo, 
she looked her readiness for a chat. 

“Ach! it is so lovely to have him here again! A 
household of women — no men — it is not life, Frau 
Schulze.” 

“You are evidently not cut out for an old maid,” 
observed the neighbor. 

“God forbid!” ejaculated the girl ferv^ently. “Why, 
when he went away my ladies became so melancholy 
that there was no staying in the house with them.” 

“So I heard.” 

“Heard?” repeated Gretchen, sweetly. “Heard?” 

“Say, Frau Schulze,” she said, suddenly transformed 
by curiosity, “who told you that Hans was back?” 

A ringing laugh was the response. 

“Ach!” whispered Gretchen tremulously. “Our 
Fraulein! Our FrMein!” 

Grasping the watering pot in one hand and Frau 
Schulze’s sleeve in the other, she tiptoed in long 
strides to the remotest comer of the garden. 

“You see,” said the maid resignedly, beginning her 
work, “she hasn’t been very well since he went away, 
and Frau von Berwitz cautioned me about disturbing 
her of a morning.” 

. “Now, say, Frau Schulze,” she continued impa- 
tiently, “who told you about Hans?” 

“Frau Schwartz.” 

“There! I thought it! The old vixen! She is 


‘ ^MISS TRA UMEREI ” 245 

always watching us from behind her window cur- 
tains!” 

Muttering a popular threat, the maid gave the 
direction of the obnoxious matron’s residence as 
black a look as her comely features would express, 
and proceeded, with a softened expression at mention 
of Hans, to tell her story : 

“I thought that Hans — I thought Hans never 
would return. He had been working for Herr 
Muller ever since finishing his military term, and was 
offered more salary if he would remain another year, 
but he had not seen the old folks in four years and 
said that he would first go home for a week’s visit. 
That was in June. The night before he left we had 
a quarrel, a little quarrel — our first — and parted in 
anger. 

‘Never mind, Fraulein Gretchen,’ said he, ‘you 
will repent this!’ and turned on his heel without even 
a ‘good-bye.’ 

“ ‘Ach Gott!’ thought I, ‘he is just stubborn enough 
to make it hard for me,’ and he did. 

“Two weeks passed without my seeing or hearing a 
word of him. 

“‘Ach Gott! Ach Gott!’ thought I, ‘that is what 
he meant about my repenting,’ for I knew that his 
father had been coaxing him to work in their town. 

“Well, I had made up my mind that I should never 
again see him, when Frau von Berwitz sent me to 
the Rathhaus Restaurant on an errand last Monday 
night a week ago, and — ^we ran face to face in the 


246 


<^MISS TRAUMEREl 


doorway. He made out not to see me, and looked 
straight over my head. 

“ ‘Herr Je!’ thought I, ‘two can do that!’ 

“The next night I was sitting out in the big door- 
way watching the children romping in the street, 
when he came walking by, smoking his pipe. I 
turned my face away, but out of the corners of my 
eyes I could see him look at me. 

“Pretty soon he came back, and quite near, too, but I 
kept on looking up the street like I hadn’t heard him. 
When he got to the beer hall he turned round and 
walked straight back to me. Then I looked away 
again and saw Frau Schwartz hiding behind the cur- 
tains. 

“ ‘Good evening,’ he said. 

“ ‘Good evening,’ said I, and I looked up surprised, 
and not a bit glad, either. 

“ ‘Will you not shake hands?’ said he, for you see 
I had taken no notice of his hand when he put it out. 

“‘Have you been away?’ said I, as if I had not 
noticed his absence, and I gave him my hand.” 

“Well?” inquired Frau Schulze. 

“Oh, that old Frau Schwartz was watching and 
spoiled it all,” said Gretchen vexedly, “for he wouldn’t 
let it go, and ” 

“And what?” 

“What? Why— nothing.” 

“Nothing? Aren’t you going to marry him, now?” 

“Marry him? Marry him, Frau Schulze? Why, 
of course! You don’t think that I would flirt with a 


^^MISS TRAUMEREI 


247 


man, do you? But of course it won’t be until after 
our American and the young Fraulein are married. 
Frau von Berwitz couldn’t break another girl in by 
that time, and I wouldn’t leave her in the lurch when 
so much is doing.” 

“Married?” gasped Frau Schulze meanwhile. “Mar- 
ried? When was their engagement announced?” 

“Not yet,” answered Gretchen, simply. 

“Then how do you know it?” 

“Frau Schulze,” said Gretchen, dropping the water- 
ing-pot to resume her favorite attitude, “if I had had 
only a quarter of an eye instead of two good whole 
ones, I could have told you that a month ago.” 

“Then you think they will be married right off?” 

“Of course!” said Gretchen in surprise; “what’s to 
hinder? They are both rich; not poor like Hans 
and me, who have got to lay by a bit first.” 

“Well,” observed the neighbor, resuming her knit- 
ting with an incredulous look, “the first thing they 
will have to do will be to get engaged.” 

“Leave that to either one of them!” retorted Gret- 
chen wisely. 

“Gretchen Stemmier! Do you mean to say that 
your Fraulein would propose to him?” 

“No! certainly not, Frau Schulze!” replied Gretchen 
indignantly, “but a girl can sort of — of-^help a 
man toward saying it, can’t she? Don’t I know? 
Ach!” 

“Don’t we all know?” said Frau Schulze, who was 
more interested in the prospective nuptials than in 
her companion’s chagrin. 


248 


‘ *MISS TRA UMEREI 


“But say, aren't they going to give an entertainment 
to announce the betrothal?” 

“Of course!” exclaimed Gretchen, clapping her 
hands in glee. “Of course! I had quite forgotten 
that. What a grand affair it will be, too, with our 
Fraulein to do the ordering? And Frau von Ber- 
witz will have to wear her black satin, with the long 
train and low neck, which she wears at court, and all 
the family jewels. Mein Gott! it’ll be beautiful!” 

“And the Fraulein?” 

“Oh, she’ll have a new dress from Berlin — all 
white — and she has such wonderful things, too! You 
remember the new dress she brought me in June? 
It is heavenly! And she paid for the making of it, 
too. Ach! the Fraulein is stone rich!” 

“All Americans are,” said Frau Schulze. 

“So they say,” remarked Gretchen absently. 

•“Depend upon it,” she continued, with under- 
standing, “everything will be of the finest. I don’t 
see but the Rammans will have to take full charge of 
the refreshments after all, for we’ll have enough to 
do, Frau Schulze, in looking after the floral decora- 
tions and the guests.” 

“Mary and Joseph!” ejaculated the elder of the 
two, lapsing into her southern dialect, “what a crowd 
there will be!” 

“No, there won’t,” said Gretchen emphatically. 
“Meister Liszt hates a crowd, and he’ll be the first in- 
vited; and he’ll kiss them both and bless them! It 
will be worth something, too, you know, for he is an 
AbbI!” 


‘‘MISS TRAUMEREI 


249 


“Then we will have all the Lisztianer, the Fraulein 
Stahr, Herr ITofrath Gille, from Jena, Her Hoforgan- 
ist Gottschalg, Fraulein Panzer, Count von ” 

“Whew! Nay, Frau Schulze, that won’t do. He’s 
in love with our FrMein himself. Now, how are we 
to manage that? Poor man! How he will feel! But 
we can’t leave him out. He’s a friend of the family, 
and the Countess, his mother, is a school friend of 
Frau von Berwitz.” 

“Well,” continued Gretchen, with a sigh, ‘T sup- 
pose it’ll have to be. Then, there are the young offi- 
cers who visit our Fraulein sometimes, the von Bsen- 
steins, the von ” 

“Mariechen!” called Stanford’s voice, not ten paces 
away. 

Gretchen’s knees almost gave way in her fright. 
“Herr Je!” cried she and Frau Schulze in a breath, 
and, grasping the watering-pot, the maid hid her face 
at work. 

“The black man! The black man!” articulated 
Mariechen between terrified shrieks, for Stanford had 
caught her bending over a pansy bed in disobedience 
to Elsa’s warning of her fate, and was tossing her 
above his head. 

Roused by his voice from the most restful sleep 
of weeks, Muriel stole to her vine-sheltered window 
in time to see him pacify the little one on his shoul- 
der, and to hear the mother say: “Ach! dear sir, she 
has done nothing but prattle about you and wish for 
your return.” 



Yielding to a delicious languor, Muriel closed her 
eyes to the scene without. Her thoughts were with 
Stanford, and soon she, too, was with him, by the Ilm, 
crossing the stone bridge and passing on through the 
Park. He did not seem to see her, but she lost sight 
of no fleeting change of expression as she glided by 
his side past the broad lawns before Goethe’s cottage. 
The birds were singing, the flowers, the shrubs, the, 
long grass and trees were nodding him welcome. 

The rapture of Nature’s joy shone in his face — 
an involuntary response, but to her — to her alone — 
she knew that he dedicated consciousness and each 
warm heartbeat. At Ober-Weimar she heard him say, 
“No, the other way, it is shorter to her,” and, taking 
another direction, he came to a rustic bridge over the 
Ilm in the upper park. 

Above him, great trees, intertwining their branches, 
arched the length of the stream ; below, escaping sun- 
beams danced on the silent waters ; and, as he looked, 
a grey-bearded boatman, gliding noiselessly from be- 
neath the bridge, found mooring at the foot of a 
giant oak and stepped upon the mossy bank. De- 
scending the knoll, Stanford accosted the stranger, 

?5o 


^^MISS TRAUMEREr^ 251 

“Is your boat to let?” he repeated, having received no 
response. 

The man stood like a statue. Passing him a coin, 
Stanford stepped into the boat and pushed into mid- 
stream. Silently the weird boatman watched him 
round the bend in the river. 

Still gliding along the river path, Muriel saw Stan- 
ford lay down his oars to watch the gold-fish dart 
afirightedly from their shallow pools near shore, as 
his boat troubled the placid surface. Serenely he 
floated on through alternating sunlight and shadow, 
past the familiar haunts of his childhood. 

The stream broadened beneath a clear sky, and 
from either bank weeping willows dipped in the rip- 
pling tide. Absorbed in thought, he failed to notice 
the landscape flit more and more rapidly by. 

“Will he not see?” Muriel held her breath in an 
agony of suspense. “Is there no one else to warn 
him?” She tried to call, but her voice died in her 
throat. Wringing her hands in frenzy she sped madly 
along the low bank; but faster still and stronger 
flowed the current. 

The distant thunder of mighty waters now rose 
and swelled until the earth trembled beneath her feet. 

“Save him! Save him!” shouted a familiar voice 
from the high bridge concealing the fall before the 
palace. A military form sprang down the steep bank 
as Stanford struggled for the oars. They snapped 
at the first touch of the resistless current. In wild 
alarm he half rose and* turned toward the shore. Pie 
lifted his arms in mute appeal to her — to her who 


252 


^‘MISS TRAUMEREI 


was powerless to save him ! The fragile bark rose on 
the last billow, and, with a look of unutterable love, he 
disappeared in the mist overhanging the yawning gulf. 

Muriel fell forward towards the flood. Strong 
arms caught her; the same familiar voice sounded in 
her ear; then darkness came on, and the scent of new- 
mown hay filled the air. 

“God always guard and keep her!” whispered an 
echo of the past. “God save her now,” was the low- 
spoken word, and she recognized Hohenfels’ face 
dimly in the moonlight. 

A shadow fell on the meadows. Muriel trembled 
as if an icy hand had touched her; tears blinded her 
eyes ; a cold perspiration bedewed her forehead, and the 
crown of her head seemed scorched by a burning sun. 

Hi :i« Hi * 5ls 

Half-dazed and startled, Muriel knew not where 
she was. Yawning gulf — resistless current! How 
vivid the vision seemed! Slowly the familiar sur- 
roundings came again before her. She thought of 
the gentle Ilm as it falls before the old bridge at the 
palace. Would not the Weimeraner laugh if they 
knew its dream-transformation. But alas! What 
could it mean? Was it a warning? And, overcome 
by her old fear of the water, she shuddered as if 
chilled by an icy wave. 

“Am I unnerved from over-practice,” she thought. 
“Must I then leave Weimar and its ideal musical life? 
Oh, no! Not yet, not yet!” And the song rose in- 
voluntarily to her lips: 

Wo mein Herz und mein Lied sind, 

Da bin ich zu Haus*. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

Wo mein Herz und mein Lied sind, 

Da bin ich zu Hans’, 

sang Muriel, adapting the rhythm to her steps as 
she came through the Cloister. 

“‘Wo mein Herz und mein Lied sind.’ Humph!” 
observed Gretchen, looking up with sparkling eyes 
as she bore her cumbersome tray across the court. 
“It’s the first time the Fraulein has sung since he left 
us for London. Frau Schulze will believe me straight 
off the next time I tell her anything.” 

“Leave Weimar now?” mused Muriel, as they tar- 
ried long after breakfast under the old plum-trees. 
“Leave Meister and these memorable reunions? Miss 
one of them.f^. Ah, no! ‘Wo mein Herz und mein 
Lied sind, Da bin ich zu Haus’ ” and she lapsed into 
placid enjoyment of Stanford’s voice as he read from 
the morning paper words which she did not heed. 
Indeed, the day passed like a dream. She felt as 
lazy as Mime habitually looked when Frau von Ber- 
witz reminded her at coffee in the summer-house 
that she and Carl were, even then, due at the Royal 
Gardens. 

The season there had attained its zenith. Dis- 
tinguished musicians from abroad, newly initiated 
Lisztianer, courtiers and literary^ celebrities filled the 
rooms to suffocation. Though Meister presided with 
the utmost grace and suavity, Muriel detected a fleet- 
ing expression of annoyance at the overwhelming 
253 


254 


‘^MISS TRAUMEREV' 


numbers when he was finally left alone with his whist 
party. A quieting rubber relaxed the tense muscles 
of his face; and when, at his request, Stanford sang 
Schubert’s Serenade, Muriel felt that some of her own 
happiness repaid the dear old man for his long, 
weary day. 

Then, while the garden lay in shadow, and cooling 
breezes stirred through the rooms they told him 
good night and passed out into another dream- 
world. 

At the Allee gate, Muriel looked at the sky and then 
at her watch. “I think,” she said, “that Xante Anna 
will be waiting tea for us. Mr. Stanford and I would 
better take the short cut home. Good night, all. 
Remember, Ama, at nine o’clock.” , 

Muriel’s spirits rose as they entered the romantic 
gloom of the park. Stanford became moody, al- 
most silent. Instinctively she knew the burden of 
his mind, and with a woman’s last vanishing instinct 
of self-protection she plied him between hope and de- 
spair, between ecstasy and misery, and between de- 
cision and afterthought, until she saw this master 
singer, this leader of men, trembling, all but suppliant 
before her. 

“Why do you not speak?” said her eyes. 

“How can you think of such a thing?” contra- 
dicted her eyes, and all the while the tenderness of 
her nature seemed to envelope him like a magic charm 
to ward off any pain or evil which others might in- 
flict. 

So, held in check by Muriel’s subtle counterplay, 


‘ ^MISS TRA UMEREI 


255 


Stanford reached the old mansion with the dream 
of his heart unspoken. 

Rivington came with Arna and Mrs. Trebor be- 
fore they rose from supper; and following them 
Count von Hohenfels and his three comrades of the 
Erholung’s party. Arna, with her violin, received 
the homage due to a goddess ; when, at last, she low- 
ered her bow after playing an obligato for Schubert’s 
Serenade, eleven strokes from the castle tower floated 
in from the garden door to call the end of another 
Weimar day. 

Historic Weimar! What music — what great works 
have been your heritage since Goethe ajid Schiller 
first gave you immortality! What is your future? 
Where the genius to perpetuate traditional glory? Is 
it even now at your threshold, or will generations un- 
born still ask — where? Glory like yours is not for 
barter. Fate alone controls it. 

Stanford was left talking with the young officers 
at the street door. 

Muriel could hear the voices as she waited for him 
at the drawing-room window. With her chin on 
her folded arms she was studying the stars and hum- 
ming softly, “Du meine Seek, du mein Herzen,” un- 
mindful of the conversation. “Words are sacrilege 
in such a silence,” she mused again, as the clank of 
sword and spur grew faint in the street and ascending 
steps came nearer; “only not his — they are music — 
like his song.” 

“Where is Tante Anna?” Muriel leaned back in 
her chair. 


256 


^^MISS TRAUMEREI 


“Coming!” responded a voice without, and foot- 
steps died in the gallery. Stanford entered lightly, 
and pushing an ottoman towards the window, placed 
himself at her feet. “What a glorious sky,” he whis- 
pered. 

“Yes,” said Muriel, following the direction of his 
gaze. 

Xante Anna did not return, the city had gone to 
sleep, and they were alone in the intoxicating silence 
of the night. 

“How divinely Ama plays,” murmured Muriel at 
last, with an echo of bewitching melody in her voice. 

Stanford turned quickly. Though both were deep 
in shadow, Muriel felt the intensity of his eyes. “No 
more so than you,” he remarked gently. 

“That,” she said impulsively, “that is the first com- 
pliment you have ever paid my music.” 

“Don’t you know why?” 

“No.” 

“It is because I care so much more for you — for 
you yourself,” he repeated, with a passionate throb in 
his voice, “That — that — the music — is quite another 
thing! You don’t mind my telling you, do you?” he 
asked eagerly, seeing that she had drawn back in her 
chair. 

“No,” said Muriel, in an easy tone, prolonging the 
word as if under consideration. “No, why should I?” 

“I hoped you would not,” he said, rather gravely, 
“for I am going to ask still more of you — that — 
you will never send me away from you — never — so 
long as we, both of us, live!” 


^‘MISS TRAUMEREI 


257 


“I never have done that,” she said, very gently. 

“Would you?” 

Muriel listened to the distant rumble of wheels. 
Her watch seemed racing with her heart. She no- 
ticed that a moth fluttering to death in the lamp sent 
shadows flickering on the patch of light from the 
corridor. “I don’t know,” she said with effort, and 
took hold of the arms of her chair. 

“Could you, knowing that I am miserably unhappy 
away from you — that you are life itself to me?” 

Muriel could not withstand the loving entreaty of 
that voice; his eyes seemed piercing her heart; she 
felt as if she should suffocate unless she escaped the 
spell of his influence. 

“We have known each other so short a time,” 
she answered evasively. 

“And I have wmted a lifetime for you. Will you 
keep me waiting now?” 

“Waiting?” 

“To be my wife — my better self.” 

“And my heart for thee is yearning,” sang the 
stars. “Bid it, love, be still. Bid it, love, be still.” 
Why did the night, the stars, and the sapphire sky 
waft back those inspired words? Why did all Na- 
ture lend him aid, but to fulfill the decree of the in- 
evitable? How, then, could she resist his pleading? 
How withhold the love which was his by divine right 
and hallowed by every throb of her heart. “I know, 
I know,” cried her Mentor, “but not quite yet. 
That which is lightly won is lightly valued. Raise 
objections. There are none,” reflected Muriel in con- 


258 


*^MISS TRAUMEREI 


sternation. “It was meant to be from the beginning.” 
“Remember your ardor, then, in planning his diver- 
sions.” “Certainly!” 

Muriel straightened up with maidenly modesty. 

He saw the movement, and he brought his eyes 
nearer that she might read there the love which his 
lips expressed in words so tender that she dared not 
longer look and listen. 

“Remember!” spoke her Mentor. 

“You haven’t a better friend living,” she said gently 
at last, when all thought of argument failed her. “But 
— again she looked to the night for strength; a 
breath of new-mown hay touched her face; the 
meadows were white in the moonlight, and a voice 
was whispering: “God forever bless and keep her!” 

The horror of her dream suddenly chilled her. 

“Let me think about it,” she said at last, calmly. 
“Marriage is too serious to arrange hastily. When I 
give my hand I give my life and all that it holds.” 

“I know it,” interposed Stanford in such worshipful 
tones that Muriel faltered and turned away. 

“I cannot say Yes,” she said, “and leaving every 
other consideration out of the question I have too 
high a regard for you to say No without reflection. 
Give me time to think.” 

Again he interrupted with gentle pleading. 

“Give me time to think,” said Muriel, with unswerv- 
ing decision, but so gently that Tante Anna, coming 
through the vestibule, could not hear voices. “I will 
tell you on Saturday night. Let us not refer to it in 
the mean time.” 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

During his two days’ probation, Xante Anna took 
no apparent notice of Stanford’s altered manner. 
Gretchen was not supposed to see it, but to Aluriel 
there was a touching appeal in the atmosphere of in- 
definable tenderness which seemed to hover about 
him. 

The security of his promise to not renew his suit be- 
fore the following evening was Muriel’s sole strength 
in the intoxication of that idyllic first day. The 
clock in the castle tower chimed the echoes of her 
heart’s song, and only the waning light told of fleet- 
ing time as they lingered in the summer-house, after 
coffee, while Xante Anna slumbered over her em- 
broidery. 

“Dear Helene!” exclaimed Muriel, with new sweet- 
ness in her voice. “It’s her birthday, C 1” 

“Almost — but not quite!” Xante Anna’s eyes, 
sparkling, responded to her frightened glance. 

“It would have ruined everything had I said Carl 
then!” reflected Muriel, her cheeks flaming. Stanford 
looked supremely happy and suggested verbal con- 
gratulations at once. . 

“And I haven’t ordered even a flower!” she said, 
thinking of the gifts forgotten in her room. 

“We will get some at the widow’s on our way,” ob- 
served Stanford, “for I did not mean to forget Helene, 
either.” 


259 


26 o 


^^MISS TRAUMEREI 


“Nor Anna, dear Carl,” interposed Frau von Ber- 
witz, as Muriel turned self-consciously towards the 
garden in memory of the cause of their forgetfulness. 
“You will find all Helene’s presents duplicated, for no 
one thinks of giving to one and not the other. If 
an ornament, it would never be worn; for they dress 
alike, talk alike, and do everything alike.” 

“Two birthdays a year,” remarked Stanford, with an 
amused expression. “That is racing with history.” 

“Ama’s birthday falls on St. Valentine’s day,” said 
Frau von Berwitz, rising to go with them to the 
house. 

“That keeps them young. Anna and Helene will 
never grow old if they each live to be a hundred,” ob- 
served Muriel. “It’s the way their hearts are made.” 
“Why should I mention hearts,” she reflected, going 
in advance to escape Stanford’s eyes. “I shall be 
wearing mine on my sleeve next thing!” And Muriel 
fancied she had donned her mask. 

At the artistic home in Schwannseestrasse, gifts 
from two continents were exhibited; one gift having 
special prominence, for it was accompanied by con- 
gratulations in the Master’s characteristic hand. His 
disciples indeed crowded the music-room where 
Anna and Ivan were playing his Fourteenth Hun- 
garian Rhapsody. Flowers galore freighted the 
air with perfume, and, in the front row of chairs, the 
sisters Stahr, like Saint Cecilias, gazed devoutly upon 
the faces of the two artists. 

Pressed to end the impromptu programme, Stan- 
ford sang Beethoven’s “Adelaide” in a way to make 


“M/SS TRAUMEREI" 


261 


Muriel’s fingers tremble on the keyboard. Then, as 
Ivan was declaring it a “revelation,” Stanford lent his 
glorious voice to the chorus “Hoch soli sie leben,” 
sung to a final clicking of glasses with “Das Geburts- 
tagskind.” • 

“You missed the afternoon,” said Ivan to Muriel 
and Stanford, when only the comrades of the Rus- 
sischer Hof remained with the Fraulein Stahr. “You 
must spend the evening with us. We’ll sup some- 
where.” 

“Tiefurt!” cried the chorus. 

“Not the castle,” remonstrated Ivan. “Nothing 
but clabber and eggs. I prefer beer and something 
to eat.” 

“The Rosenkranz,” cried one, with a romantic pref- 
erence for the verdant terrace and the ceaseless roar 
of the mill-dam. 

“Better beer at the Felsenkeller,” observed Ivan, 
with authority. 

They stopped at the old mansion for Frau von 
Berwitz. Again “Das Geburtstagkind” was toasted, 
and then they sauntered, pairwise, out the grand old 
Chaussee to the vineclad hillside, where the arbored 
garden of the Felsenkeller gave vistas of lowland and 
park. Another birthday party, overflowing the 
house, taxed the resources of the modest hostelry. 

“Hunger makes the best soldiers,” observed Ivan, 
leading a raid on the kitchen. 

Hands destined to command by their magic thd 
homage of an entire musical world ere another an- 
niversary of Helene’s birth, prepared the feast. Then 


262 


‘ <MISS TRA UMEREI 


“Das Geburtstagkind” rose into prominence as night 
closed round the illuminated board. During a series 
of toasts Moritz digressed to extol* Ivan’s general- 
ship and to predict an equally brilliant future for him 
as “head waiter,” did he choose to end his planetary 
career in the art-world. Later the infectious pleas- 
ure of Terpsichorean revellers indoors drew strag- 
gling devotees from the table to the confines of the 
ball-room, and, eventually, there came an invitation 
from the host for the Lisztianer to join the party. 

In and out of the circle of waltzers flew Anna’s and 
Helene’s many ribbons, and the flowing locks, loose 
neckerchiefs and velvet jackets of the ultra artists; 
but just as the recruits were breathing the inspiration 
of the dance, the pianist succumbed to fatigue. 

“Sapprement!” ejaculated Ilmstedt in annoyance. 
“Is our fun to be spoiled by that woman?” 

“Not in the least,” said Moritz good-naturedly, re- 
placing her at the rickety instrument. 

Again the ribbons, artistic locks and velvet jackets 
floated in mazy grace; now faster, now slower; then 
whirling till onlookers grew dizzy watching the crowd 
spin by. 

“It is called ‘rubato’ in music,” observed Muriel, as 
she and Stanford halted for breath. “Inability to 
keep time,” growled Ilmstedt, as his compatriot, a dis- 
ciple of Brahms, whom he opposed, took such liberties 
with the tempo that the bravest dancer left the floor. 

“There never was one of a genuinely artistic tem- 
perament who could play for dancing,” said Muriel 
in defence of her colleague. 


^^MISS TRAUMEREl 


263 


“Indeed, Fraulein!” exclaimed Ivan in mock in- 
dignation. “See you, now, what a machine I can be.” 
Waving Moritz to the dancers he began a wild galop. 

“The Tartar blood in him,” remarked Moritz, as 
he and Helene gave, up a breathless flight. “He fan- 
cies himself on the Steppes — taking a new one at each 
bound.” 

Hearing the laughter, the Russian glanced at the 
empty floor. With a fascinating obeisance to the 
pianist, he acknowledged his defeat by offering his 
arm and returning her to the oflice in which her sense 
of rhythm was more effective than his superior art. 

The dance, the long, happy return over the hard, 
white Chaussee, the last tender good-nights were 
ended, and Muriel was once more alone with the 
night — her night, which she loved more than day in 
Weimar, where it. spoke in poetic measure to heart 
and mind. Life, indeed, had become nothing less 
than a poem — a caress of the senses. 

Only one sad minor strain varied the calm music 
of her thoughts. Again the heavy scent of flowers, 
the moonlight silvering the tree-tops and whitening 
the meadows; again pale in the gloom beyond the 
lindens, a maiden standing before a kneeling figure. 
“Farewell; God forever bless and keep her,” sounded 
through the night-silences. And the clock that 
chimed the midnight tolled the knell of a heart as 
fond as her own. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

Another day in dreamland. Another lesson at the 
Royal Gardens, and Muriel was in the longest twi- 
light of her life. 

Meister had asked her to remain with Ama and 
Stanford for a rubber at whist. 

Whist! Music was fit accompaniment for her rev- 
eries, but whist! Whist meant concentration of 
mind. 

Impossible! 

Meister selected card players as he did pianists. 
Heaven protect the one who made a false play! 

Muriel assorted her cards with infinite pains. “Dry, 
stupid game,” she reflected, as she spread them fan- 
shaped. “Why didn’t he ask Carl to sing?’ 

Oh, du entrissne mir und meinem Kusse 
Sei mir gegriisst, sei mir gekusst. 

Ah, that divine voice, that heavenly strain! He 
had first sung it for her here — in this room, and how 
jealous she had become of Meister! 

Muriel smiled absently at her cards. 

“Your lead. Miss Traumerei,” said Ivan, looking 
over her shoulder at the Master’s, her partner’s, face. 
The latter laughed spasmodically, for he loved the 
boy’s genial, if fiery, nature. 

Muriel begged pardon and threw down a club. 
Meister played the ace, and Stanford, casting the 
deuce of hearts, put out his hand to claim the cards. 

264 


‘^MISS TRAUMEREI^^ 265 

— No!” said Muriel, stopping him. “Meister 
took that trick.” 

“Hearts are trurnps, Fraulein Muriel,” said Stan- 
ford quietly. “I shuffled for this game.” 

Divining the double import of the retort, the Meis- 
ter laid down his cards and removed his spectacles in 
order to laugh with abandon. 

“Second hand low; third hand high,” Muriel con- 
stantly admonished herself in fear of a misstep, and 
then it came again her time to lead. “Hearts are 
trumps, Fraulein Muriel; I shuffled for this game,” 
was all she could recall. “What did he trump?” she 
reflected in confusion. Meister looked at her across 
the board. Down went the king of clubs at a ven- 
ture. Arna and Meister smiled faintly as they played, 
and then Stanford laid down a trump. 

“Hearts are trumps, Fraulein Muriel; I shuffled for 
this game,” flashed through her mind. “'Ah! she 
gasped, and put out her hand as if to recall the cards. 

“Too late,” said Stanford, sweeping them in. 

“A desired opponent,” observed the Master, look- 
ing helplessly at her. “Really, a desired opponent!” 
and he delayed them long enough to hear a fitting 
anecdote. 

“Now we resume with equal chances, ‘Desired Op- 
ponent’; I have confused everybody,” he said, taking 
up his cards and adjusting his spectacles. 

Arna insisted upon his telling anecdotes after the 
last trick was decided, adding that he was taking un- 
fair advantage of his opponents by this digression, 
which bit of pleasantry amused the Master to the ex- 


266 


^^MISS TRAUMEREI’’ 

tent of another five minutes, and they played their 
hands out as best they could. 

Meister’s capital spirits were further improved by a 
few puffs at his favorite cigar, which Mrs. Trebor had 
kept lighted on a broad, flat shell of historic renown. 

“Meister,” said Ivan, “FrMein Bittergrass ” 

‘The celebrated bas bleu!” interposed the Master 
impressively. 

“ and sister were below as I came in for the les- 

son.” 

“Mischka did his duty, I presume?” said the Master 
grimly. 

“Their faces indicated as much,” observed Ivan 
drily. In fact, I fear that their disappointment lay 
mainly in losing the opportunity of illustrating to you 
their dress reform.” 

The Master elevated his eyebrows. 

“They shimmered in black alpaca and a sort of 
enameled armor — a travesty in collars and cuffs.” 

The Master gave a prolonged laugh. “They are, 
nevertheless, worthy women— worthy women,” he as- 
serted, with a will to be just, “but ” An eloquent 

gesture supplied the idea. “Some years ago I at- 
tended the National Musical Festival at . 

One evening a choral work of mine occupied the first 
half of the programme. During the ensuing pause 
a number of acquaintances came to my box to ex- 
change a word with me, and amongst them Fraulein 
Bittergrass and sister and the great Pumpernickel!” 
Giving a mock reverence at this mention of an un- 
loved pupil, whose nickname had outlived his patro- 


^^MISS TRAUMEREI 


267 


nymic in Weimar, he continued: ‘‘Every one left but 
this picturesque trio. I hadn’t asked them to stay. 
I didn’t want to ask them to go. However, they 
made themselves comfortable in the front chairs. In- 
stantly every lorgnette in the house was levelled at 
them. They leaned their elbows on the cushioned 
railing and faced the audience without flinching. The 
worst of it was they wore their red Garibaldis. Some 
misguided person brought them as presents from 
Rome twenty-five years before, and the sisters had 
never discarded them.” 

“Nall! ‘Desired Opponent,’ it is our chance,” said 
Meister, glancing at his cards. 

How the music coursed through her memory as 
she half listened to their badinage: 

Das Meer erglanzte weit hinaus 
Im letzten Abendscheine, 

Wir sassen am einsamen Fischerhaus, 

Wir sassen stumm und alleine. 

It was her heart singing — singing because it could 
not keep still. They could not hear it. No! it 
sang in her own world — her own dear world of the 
i(teal — the songs he had made her love! None could 
see; none could know; and her heart went singing: 

Der Nebel stieg, das Wasser schwoll, 

Die Mowe flog bin und wieder, 

Ausdeinen Augen liebevoll 
Fielen die Thranen nieder. 

Something like a mist came between her eyes and 
the cards. The trump on the table before her was 
blurred red, she observed, as Arna led of¥. “I shuf- 
fled for this game,” occurred to her. “Hearts are 


268 


‘ ^MISS TRAUMEREI 


again trumps, Herr Carl!” The reflection interrupted 
the song, but the music floated on softly with her 
thoughts. 

“Oh dear,” said Muriel, leaning over the table to 
see the cards. “What are they?” 

Meister has another pair of spectacles on the writ- 
ing desk,” remarked Ivan in his mellow voice. “Shall 
I fetch them for you?” 

“No, thanks,” responded Muriel, “but you may 
lower that blind a trifle, if you will. The light is 
right in my eyes.” “Dear Ivan,” she reflected, 
“What a good, big-hearted boy he is — if he did 
kick over the camera on Rivington’s account; but 
we baffled him after all.” She was thinking of the 
group as they appeared out on the carpet of daisies. 
“I would try my fortune with one of them, if I had 
one.” 

“But whv? Don’t I know already that he loves 
me?” 

“Ich mdchte ziehen in die Welt hinaus: hinaus in 

die weite Welt, wenn all so griin ” The music 

and the cards mingled in hopeless confusion. 

Leise fiehen meine Lieder 
Durch die Nacht zu dir, 

hummed Ivan softly. 

Muriel turned in surprise. 

“What is it?” said the Master, thinking he had 
missed something. 

“I was serenading the Fraulein,” said the boy good- 
naturedly. 

“Did you think me asleep?” said Muriel. 


^^MISS TRAUMEREV' 269 

“No,” replied Ivan; “I simply wished to see if I 
had caught the theme of your latest rhapsody.” 

“Meditation,” interposed Arna, by way of cor- 
rection. 

“No — rhapsody,” maintained Ivan. “I never say 
'meditation’ since hearing what a price Gounod paid 
for his. The Master laid down his cards in anticipa- 
tion of a droll story. 

“Heinrich Urban told me about it last spring in 
Berlin,” continued Ivan. “A compatriot, a piano stu- 
dent, who occupied a room above Gounod’s apart- 
ment in Paris, was given to practice one day the first 
prelude from Bach’s ‘Well-Tempered Clavichord.’ He 
began at nine in the morning, and was still playing it 
at five o’clock in the afternoon, when Gounod, who 
was in a creative mood, and had gone vainly from 
room to room in trying to write, snatched up his hat 
in a rage and rushed from the house. The faster 
Gounod walked the more the prelude haunted him. 
Suddenly above its droning rose a melody of such di- 
vine beauty that as it developed in his brain it 
sounded like a voice from Heaven. Hastening home 
he recorded it above its accompaniment, the prelude, 
and to-day singers know it as the ‘Ave Maria’ and 
violinists as the ‘Meditation’ of Gounod.” 

“And now. Miss Traumerei,” said the Russian, with 
an engaging obeisance, “will you give us your rhap- 
sody?” 

“Ivan! Ivan!” observed the Master, with smiling 
reproof. “Leave Miss Muriel alone, or I shall come 
to her defence.” 


2 70 ^ ‘MISS TRA UMEREI 

“I think, Meister, the severest penalty would be to 
make him play out my hand,” and Muriel insisted that 
Ivan should take her place. “I am too dull to play 
to-day,” slie whispered to Meister, as she came around 
to sit by Mrs. Trebor. “Fll retrieve my reputation 
as a card player next time. I don’t wish to deprive 
Mr. Rivington of his pet pseudonym.” 

“Oh, he is no longer the ‘Desired Opponent,’ ” ex- 
claimed the Master, turning to tap the shoulder of 
her compatriot, who was watching his play from the 
other side. “He has become an artist — under tui- 
tion !” 

It came the Master’s turn to deal. Then the first 
hand round disclosed the ace, deuce, trey and four of 
diamonds on the table. 

“Wait!” cried Ivan, pointing at the cards. “Tra- 
dition says: ‘Kiss the dealer!’ Is it true, Meister, 
that Beethoven came upon the platform at your first 
concert in Vienna and kissed you upon the fore- 
head ?” 

“Certainly,” said the Master, in surprise. “I re- 
member it well.” 

“Which was the spot?” inquired the Russian, mov- 
ing as if to rise. 

“Please don’t tell, Meister,” interposed Muriel, with 
sudden animation, “unless you wish it to become as 
celebrated an osculatory Mecca as St. Peter’s toe at 
Rome!” 

It had been a typical midsummer day, but it was 
very pleasant in the street as they came through town 
together at eight o’clock. The groups on the corners 


‘ ^M/SS TRA UMEREI ” 


271 


and in doorways eyed admiringly the “Lisztianer,” and 
especially the idol of the public, sweet Arna Trebor. 
Since the day that Liszt’s presence had made Weimar 
the home of pianists, the inhabitants, in according 
that guild their curious attention, paid also to the 
Aiaster their richest homage for maintaining the 
reputation for great learning which Goethe and Schil- 
ler had first given the old capital. 

For once in her life Muriel was glad to part with 
the Lisztianer. Just now they were superfluous, and 
as for the townspeople, their curiosity .always of- 
fended her. 

It seemed an interminable time since she and Stan- 
ford left Tante Anna in the summer-house, for each 
delay postponed the hour for which they both waited 
with beating hearts. The clock in the castle tower 
chimed eight as they crossed the silent court and en- 
tered the garden. 

“Guests!” exclaimed Stanford with a shadow of dis- 
pleasure in his voice as they neared the summer-house. 
“Women and a uniform!” 

“Count von Hohenfels,” said Muriel, “and — and — 
Fraulein Panzer!” 

“Yes, my dear, ‘tis I,” exclaimed the little Canary 
Bird, springing forward to meet them. I have run 
over from Berka for the night, and Anna insisted that 
Fritz and T should remain for tea.” 

There was music after supper. Hohenfels pla3’ed 
— though he carefully avoided improvisations — and 
Stanford sang as if his life hung upon the art of 
song. 


272 


‘ ^MISS TRAUMEREI ’’ 


With what different emotions Muriel listened to 
the last tender appeal of the serenade: 

And my heart for thee is yearning, 

Bid it, love, be still ; bid it, love, be still! 

He had sung it; he had spoken it, and again sung 
it before claiming his answer. Now he only waited 
the departure of the guests. They were gone. Tante 
Anna stood with them on the lower terrace — and, 
then, she too was gone. 

The night was all their own for a brief moment. 
Music floated in from the distance. The garden was 
all moonlight and shadow — shadow and moonlight, 
from the summer-house to where the vine-grown 
gable cut the deep-toned sky. The perfume of 
flowers bore enchantment in its breath. Words would 
not come in that intoxicating silence. 

Muriel turned her face to the stars. The earth 
had vanished in darkness, and heaven was theirs! 
No! not ’‘theirs” — her’s — for he was waiting silently 
at her side until she bade him follow. Muriel’s heart 
beat madly. What should she say? How should 
she say it? Why did he not help her? Yet how? 
Had he not asked the question? Was it not for her 
to answer? — that night — now — in that moment? 
Where were the finely-wrought phrases to make diffi- 
cult his way? Where the courage to argue a point 
which her heart had long since yielded? Where the 
thought to foster speech? 

This was their world — life suspended and silence 
between them? What was he thinking? Why did 
he not stir? Was it really he, or was it a dream? A 


^^MISS TRAUMEREI 


273 


dream? “No!” cried her bounding heart. “He is 
waiting for me! Look!” 

Ah, that look! It held his life! Resolutions were 
forgotten! Their world — the garden — was moon- 
light and shadow; the air, the perfume of flowers; and 
time had gone to sleep. 


CHAPTER XXXL 

Frau von Berwitz, in her best morning cap, was as 
non-committal as Hans in a fit of stubbornness. 
Gretchen watched her dress the breakfast table in the 
“parade” silver and china and the': choicest flowers 
from the garden, with a white boutonniere on one 
plate and a big white bouquet on another. Eight 
chimes from the castle tower pealed out like wedding 
bells as Muriel and Stanford, returning from their 
walk over the hills, came into the central aisle. 

Frau von Berwitz hastened forward to embrace 
and kiss them both. Gretchen wrung her hands in 
transport, and made a dash for the court. 

“Frau Schulze — Frau Schulze!” she gasped with 
each bound up the spiral stairway. “It’s done! It’s 
done! Just take a peep into the garden, and don’t 
tell a soul!” 

The ceiling and floor of the old gallery danced con- 
gratulation as she bounced toward the kitchen where 
the tea-kettle sang and rocked, and even her heavy 
soles struck music from the paving-stone when she 
started back with her bounteous tray. 

Gretchen stopped nervously at the garden thresh- 
old. Enter? Meet their eyes? Never! She would 
surely laugh — or cry! Which— which? The china 
on the tray began to rattle; she leaned against the 
wall for support; the precious burden seemed going 


‘ ^MISS TRAUMEREI 


275 


from her grasp — followed by all her savings — and re- 
tarding the union with her beloved Hans. 

Gretchen recovered herself and entered the garden 
with the utmost intrepidity, just in time to hear the, 
Fraulein call the American “Carl.” The' Fraulein 
blushed rosy red and looked so pretty that Gretchen 
thought the American quite right to look his happi- 
ness. After breakfast her mistress told her that they 
would be married in September, but that she must 
not tell even Flans for the present. Only Flerr Doc- 
tor Liszt should know it, and the young couple were 
going to the Royal Gardens for his blessing at noon. 

This secrecy, she suspected, had something to do 
with Count von Hohenfels, for he came and made 
music with the others of an evening as heretofore, and 
then she would lead Hans to the garden door to hear 
their American sing with all his heart in his grand 
voice. 

“It went on up — and up,” she said one morning to 
the Fraulein, “until it seemed that it must reach 
Heaven itself.” 

Tears filled the FrMein’s eyes as she said: “You 
are right, Gretchen. I am sure that it has been heard 
there.” 

“With the angels’ voices,” said Gretchen solemnly. 
“That is why it is so sweet.” 

To her great astonishment the Fraulein threw her 
arms about her while she laughed away the tears; 
and then Gretchen could scarcely credit her senses 
when the Fraulein told her that she would give her a 
dower of five hundred marks if she would stay with 


276 


‘ MISS TRA UMEREI 


Frau von Berwitz until she had fully recovered from 
the fatigue of the grand wedding in September. 

The days passed like a dream. No task seemed 
labor. The old mansion contained all of heaven 
that they desired, until one morning — over a week 
after the betrothal — the postman brought letters while 
they breakfasted in the garden. Gretchen will never 
forget the look whieh came into the American’s 
face, nor the look which came into all their faces 
when he told them that his return by the next steamer 
for New York was imperative; that it concerned the 
business which had brought him over, and that he 
would have to take the one o’clock train in order to 
eatch the Bremen boat next day. 

The Fraulein was the quietest of thern all. She 
only grew white and said: ‘Tt is your duty, Carl. 
Go — and return as quickly as possible, or — Tante 
Anna and I will come to you.” 

“Indeed we will, my child,” said the mistress 
gravely. “But I hope it may not be necessary.” 

Then they all became cheerful, but in such a way 
that Gretchen had to slip into the eourt to cry, out of 
sorrow for them. After an early dinner she paeked 
them safely into a carriage and returned to the house 
to avoid seeing him drive away, for it was sueh bad 
luck! 

The Fraulein meant to be very brave. She re- 
sumed her praetieing; she took long walks alone, and 
returned to her gay eircle of an evening. But Gret- 
chen saw her growing paler and more nervous every 
day. What long, weary days they were, too, wait- 


^WrSS TRAUMEREl" 


277 

ing — ^waiting — waiting for the cable to announce his 
safe arrival. 

“In seven days we’ll hear from him — in six days — 
in Jive days — in four days, ’’the Fraulein continued to 
say each morning at breakfast; and once Gretchen 
heard her refer to a dreadful dream she had had, and 
to her terror of the ocean. But when she began to 
cry softly Frau von Berwitz pretended to be angry 
with her for courting such a foolish superstition, and 
the Fraulein dried her eyes. 

“They must have been sighted off Fire Island last 
night,” she said another morning at breakfast. “If 
they catch the tide and get over the bar, they will be 
landing about our dinner hour.” 

“In event of a good voyage,” said Frau von Ber- 
witz ; “you must allow for delay.” 

“Even then we ought to get word by midnight, at 
latest,” replied the Fraulein. 

Midnight came — one o’clock — and then Frau von 
Berwitz said that waiting wouldn’t work the cable for 
them. But the Fraulein did not sleep all night, and 
after breakfast she went to the railway station to in- 
vestigate the delay. 

Another night of sleepless waiting, and the Frau- 
lein wired the steamship company at Bremen for 
news. The boat had not been reported from New 
York. 

A third night — none in the house slept. Morn- 
ing was as dark as the shadow over their hearts. Rain 
began to fall before daylight and continued through- 
out the early morning. The Fraulein did not even 


278 <^MISS TRAUMEREI’^ 

go to her music-room, but sat in a drawing-room 
window with her big, sad eyes fixed upon the street, 
watching for the messenger who did not come. 

Frau von Berwitz had left her alone a few mo- 
ments as Gretchen came into the dining-room to 
tend the geraniums. In bending over the sill Gret- 
chen noticed Frau Schwartz cross the street and stop 
under the window where the Fraulein sat. The rain 
had ceased. In her hand Frau Schwartz held an 
open paper. 

“Ach, Fraulein,” said the woman, looking up, 
“everybody is so sorry to hear it, for he was such a 
handsome, grand young man.” 

“What do you mean?” said the Fraulein in a fright- 
ened voice. 

“The young American.” 

“Which young American?” 

“The one who just went away from here — from 
Frau von Berwitz’s.” 

“What are you talking about?” said the Fraulein 
slowly and in a hard voice which had lost all its 
sweetness. “What do you know about the young 
American v»dio has been here?” 

“Only what the morning paper says,” answered the 
woman, shrinking back. 

Then as the PTaulein went on, Gretchen remem- 
bered having seen the daily paper lying untouched in 
the entry. 

“Well, what does it say?” Her tone was so dull 
and so cold that Gretchen fairly shivered with fright. 

“Why, it says,” whined Frau Schwartz, evidently 


^^MISS TRAUMEREV^ 


279 

^chanted to be the bearer of the news “how his boat 
was run into by another boat, and how he was 
drowned, with everybody else on board ” 

There was a terrible silence. Gretchen stood an 
instant as if petrified, and then the horror of it all 
swept over her. She never knew what prompted it. 
but a mighty force lifted her arm and sent the bucket 
of water which she was holding straight at Frau 
Schwartz’s head. There was a frightful scream from 
the street, and then Gretchen heard a heavy fall in the 
next room. 

“Ach, the poor Fraulein!” 

She and her mistress, who had been in the entr>% 
saw her at the same moment, as she lay like one dead 
upon the floor. 

“Oh, Gretchen,” moaned Frau von Berwitz, “her 
head has struck the chair.” 

“Gretchen’s heart stood still. She knew that some- 
thing terrible had happened, and what were they to 
do? 

“Run,” she called to the unhappy woman in the 
street, “run for the doctor, for you have killed her, 
too!” 

They placed her on the sofa and tried vainly to 
restore her to consciousness. Neither spoke of the 
awful fate of their beloved American, but Frau von 
Berwitz was as white as the poor young Fraulein her- 
self. 

Gretchen felt a sob rising in her throat as the min- 
utes dragged by like hours and the doctor did not 
come. 


28 o 


<^MISS TRAUMEREI 


“ril go too,” she said to her mistress, and darted 
out of the room. 

The doctor was on the stairway, and behind him a 
messenger with a telegram. Gretchen motioned the 
doctor to open the door, and then, with a boldness 
which it makes her blush now to recall, she opened the 
Fraulein’s telegram. Fortunately it was in German: 

“Arrived — well. Delayed by accident to ma- 
chinery. Carl.” 

When she whispered the message to her mistress, 
she looked down at the Fraulein and began to cry. 
But smiles quickly broke through her tears, for the 
Fraulein moved and opened her eyes. 

“Safe! Safe! ” exclaimed Frau von Berwitz, fearing 
to say more, but holding aloft the telegram. 

The Fraulein didn’t seem to understand at first, 
and then she smiled a very little before closing her 
eyes again. 

After a while, when she could speak a few words, 
she asked what had happened to her, and Frau von 
Berwitz, seeing that she had forgotten, said: “A 
little dizziness; nothing more. Carl is safe on land, 
so now don’t talk any more, for the doctor wishes you 
to keep still until you are stronger.” 

Seeing that the PTaulein was in no danger, though 
the doctor said that the shock, when she was already 
so unnerved by over-practice, would probably confine 
her to the house for a time, Frau von Berwitz began 
to grow very angry with Frau Schwartz, for the 
morning paper had simply repeated the arrival of a 
Liverpool boat which, during a fog, had collided near 


^‘MISS TRAUMEREI 


281 

mid-ocean, with a smaller vessel, which was supposed 
to have gone down with all on board, as no traces 
of it could be found when they reversed the engines. 

The florist’s widow had said to a customer: “I hope 
it was not the boat by which the young American 
sailed.” 

The customer told a friend that the young Ameri- 
can was supposed to have been gn the lost boat; the 
friend told Frau Schwartz that the young American 
had foundered with the vessel, and Frau Schwartz 
had spent the morning carrying the news to the 
neighbors. 

This information was returned by Frau Schulze 
who had been sent out to investigate the false report. 

For one week it seemed to Gretchen that she did 
little else than answer the jangle of the old bell in 
the court. Count von Fiohenfels and Mr. Rivington 
came twice a day, and Herr Doctor Liszt sent each 
morning to inquire about the Fraulein, until she was 
able to drive out with Frau von Berwitz. Then, one 
afternoon, the Meister himself and everybody else 
came to say good-bye to the Fraulein, who was so 
much affected thereby that Frau von Berwitz said 
th:;.t all she could do now was to get her out of 
Weimar — that Swiss mountain air would do the rest. 

The Fraulein felt so sad at leaving that she would 
let no one but Gretchen see them off the next morn- 
ing; and when the train began to move Gretchen 
turned about and ran into the station, for she remem- 
bered that it was “such bad luck to watch any one out 
of sight,” 


282 


<^MISS TRAUMEREI 


How lonely the old mansion seemed, with its 
music, its gay young life, and its mistress gone! 

“I feel as if I could water the flowers with my 
tears,” she had said to Frau Schulze, after closing the 
house for its long sleep — but then, Hans came in 
the evening. 

Ah, Gretchen, what a fickle-hearted girl you were, 
laughing with the phildren and singing to yourself 
all next morning in the garden, as if you had never 
known the pangs of regret! And the flowers went 
on blooming, and the fruit ripened, and the days 
grew shorter, and then Gretchen heard that Herr 
Doctor Liszt and the last of the Lisztianer had de- 
parted for the season. 

“Our Fraulein will not return now,” she said 
sadly, to Frau Schulze; “and after you and I had 
planned everything for such a grand wedding, too!” 

Even then, had Gretchen known it, wedding bells 
were ringing for the Fraulein and her handsome 
young countryman in the distant city of Geneva. 

It was a quiet wedding, Frau von Berwitz wrote 
her; but such a happy one that she would start north 
next day with a light heart, especially as the young 
couple would pass a week with her in Weimar after 
a honeymoon trip in Italy; “and,” she added, “Mrs. 
Stanford bids me say that she will hand you your 
dower then, so that you may arrange for your mar- 
riage with Hans as soon after as I can fill your place.” 

“Heigho, Gretchen!” sang her heart, and “Heigho, 
Gretchen and Hans!” sang the stars that night as 
they winked at the shadows in the great archway. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 


Have you seen Lucerne by night? Have you 
leaned on the parapet of the handsome modem quay 
and counted pebbles in the clear depths of the em- 
erald lake — then cast your eye over a placid surface 
reflecting countless stars of the firmament, to that dis- 
tant and awful shadow thrown by the black, forbid- 
ding wall of solid rock beyond, on whose stupend- 
ous heights twinkle, like a royal diadem, the far-away 
lights of a great hotel; and still higher, above an 
intervening width of dark vegetation, to where the 
rising moon imparts a silvery hue to broad fields, 
rivulets, islands, and peaks of snow amidst vast rocky 
plateaus and sky-piercing crags? And have you 
finally turned to those two mighty sentinels on the 
near right and distant left — Pilatus flaming from its 
towering summit a powerful crimson light like the 
beacon of a universe, and Rigi bearing aloft a bril- 
liant solitaire, the composite gleam from the windows 
of the enormous caravansary on the Kulm? 

It is such a night at Lucerne. The band on the 
piazza of the Schweizerhof has just gone; prome- 
naders quickly leave the Allee on the quay as the 
lights of the hotel wink out one by one, until 
scattered groups only remain, softly conversing in 
the tongues of every civilized country, or awed to 
silence by the sublimity of the scene. 


^‘MISS TRAUMEREI 


From an incoming excursion steamer float distant 
peals of laughter and music. 

The great throbbing, glittering mass sweeps ma- 
jestically on to the wharf below, out of sight, out of 
hearing, whilst a shimmering silver trail ruffles the 
peaceful waters and sends them lapping against the 
stone quay. 

Out on the lake a single voice trolls out a gay 
boating song, faintly at first, but quite distinctly as 
the bark nears the shore. A lady and gentleman in the 
shadow of a tree rise in silence from a settle on the 
promenade, and cross, arm in arm, to the stone wall. 

She is rather below medium height, a trim, well- 
dressed figure, as far as we can see. She lifts her 
face in the moonlight. It is that of a stranger — a 
sweet face, indeed, and just now full of passionate 
love as she turns a pair of dark, intense eyes upon 
him. Their heads are near, and he suddenly looks 
around as she says softly in German : '‘He has stopped. 
It was so beautiful!” 

“Why — is it possible! Let us look more sharply. 
Yes, it is he; but in citizen’s dress, for officers, you 
know, always doff regimentals when on a furlough. 
Listen,” he whispers, turning his head to the lake. 

The strumming of a guitar rises from the float of 
gondolas which dot the mirror-like waters, and, save 
for the low music of the oars, move silently and mys- 
teriously about like great white swans in the moon- 
light. 

‘Tt is Schubert’s ‘Serenade,’” he whispers, intent 
upon the final chords of a brief prelude. 


^^MISS TRAUMEREI^' 


285 


Why does he start and peer curiously out over the 
waters as the tenor voice we have just heard sings: 

Leise flehen meine Lieder 
Durch die Nacht zu dir, 

In den stillen Hain hernieder 
Liebchen komm zu mir. 

The eloquent eyes at his side look up questioningly, 
but no word of his interrupts the song. Dark forms 
emerge noiselessly from the leafy shadows of the 
promenade and assume individuality in the pale light 
of the quay. ‘ The parapet has become peopled as 
by magic. 

A hundred heads bend low to catch the clearly- 
articulated words rising in sweetest melody from the 
waters. Now the boatmen, too, rest on their oars. 
Not a ripple is heard. Even the mountains seem 
listening to that marvellous voice as it soars and 
falls in divinest cadence, then floats softly, reluct- 
antly into space. 

A boat glides out and makes for the landing-steps 
near which the young lovers are standing. 

The Count eyes it sharply. 

“Come, Ottilie,” he said ; “here are some old friends 
of mine. We will assist them ashore.” 

He leaves her on the level and descends to meet 
the approaching gondola. The occupants look up 
inquiringly as he bends to steady their boat. 

“Count von Hohenfels!” they exclaim in chorus, 
as Stanford extends one hand and drags his guitar 
after him with the other. Muriel, vivacious and girl- 
ish in her dainty summer apparel, follows, looking the 
personification of health and happiness; and then 


286 


^^MISS TRAUMEREI 


good Frau von Berwitz, apparently not a day older 
than when we last saw her in Weimar, steps ashore 
and adds her voice to the general hum. 

The little lady on the quay eyes them with interest 
as they ascend, oblivious to her presence. Then the 
Count introduces her as ‘‘My wife,.’ and explains: 
“We were married just a fortnight ago in Silesia.” 

“Your cousin?” inquires Frau von Berwitz, with a 
sudden look of understanding. 

“Yes,” responds Hohenfels, as they overwhelm him 
and his bride with congratulations. 

“Do you know,” begins Frau von Berwitz, while 
they move towards the hotel, “I had quite lost account 
of you since your transfer to Eisenach.” 

“I sent you announcements of our betrothal 
and marriage,” exclaims the Count, in quick apol- 
ogy- 

“Which, probably, we shall receive here,” inter- 
poses Frau von Berwitz, taking his arm. “Our let- 
ters have gone touring, for we left New York two 
weeks earlier than originally planned, and omitted 
Weimar altogether in coming here.” 

“You have been away long — a long time.” 

“Fourteen months,” exclaims P>au von Berwitz. 
“And it is three years since Muriel and Stanford have 
seen Weimar.” 

“Have you taken out naturalization papers?” asks 
the Count jestingly. 

“Not yet,” laughs the matron; “but I am becoming 
very American in following Carl’s interests in legal 
and public affairs generally ; and now that he has been 


^‘MISS TRAUMEREr' 287 

nominated for Congress, I shall probably be waving 
the American flag until election day.” 

“Oh, he is sure to win,” she continues, seeing his 
look of inquiry. “The nomination was forced upon 
him. But Muriel and I insisted upon a run over here 
for a change and a breath of Swiss air before open- 
ing the campaign. She makes him an ideal wife,” 
she adds, with a satisfied nod at Muriel. “She has 
become indispensable to his public career, and they 
are so happy in their home life and social circle. 

They fairly idolize each other, and You must 

forgive me,” said Frau von Berwitz, abruptly chang- 
ing her tone, “but you know I brought him up almost 
from infancy, and they are like own children to me. 
Now tell me about your mother. I only know that 
Clara Panzer is passing the summer with her. She 
was, of course, rejoiced at your marriage?” 

“Decidedly!” 

“And you, too?” 

He returns smile for smile ,and she asks: “Is she 
musical?” 

“Sings like an angel.” 

“I am heartily glad for you. What — the hotel so 
soon? Well, good-night. We shall have a gay re- 
union in Lucerne,” added Frau von Berwitz, extend- 
ing her hand. 

A keen observer would have noted a change in his 
face. Were there still regrets? Was not the fire even 
yet extinguished? 

“A short one, I fear,” he says, with hesitation, “for 
we leave for Interlaken to-morrow afternoon.” 


288 


^^M/SS TRAUMEREI 


The Countess glances at him in surprise, but she 
only smiles response to the tender, almost appealing, 
expression of his eyes. 

“Oh, too bad!” exclaims Frau von Berwitz. “We 
have just arrived from there. Ah, well; you will both 
visit me in Weimar in the autumn. But, in the morn- 
ing, you must see our little one. He calls me ‘Gra’- 
mama.’ ” 

“With an English accent, too,” remarked Stanford. 

“I sometimes think,” observes Muriel to the Count- 
ess, “that he loves Tante Anna better than he docs 
me.” And taking Carl’s arm, she says: “I only fear 
that she will spoil him, as she has his father.” 

“I shall certainly try it,” affirms Frau von Berwitz. 
“Now, good-night, my dears. We will let young 
Francis speak for himself in the morning.” 

“You see,” adds Muriel, her eyes gleaming with 
unshed tears, “we have named him for the dear 
Meister.” 



Come with me again to the Royal Gardens. Par- 
don me if I accompany you to the door only. I will 
ring, and place you in charge of my kind old friend 
Pauline. She will conduct you through the upper 
rooms, which you know so well, and explain the inter- 
esting collection on exhibition there. 

One moment, while I whisper: “Give her a good 
fee if this short and truthful excerpt from the term 
of her long service here -have proven acceptable to 
you, for many is the favor she has done me in the 
dear old times. So, now, don’t let me detain you. 
Look well after my friends, Pauline.” 

Wait! I forgot to say — and this sotto voce — don’t 
ask her about any of our old acquaintances, for she 
knew them by other names. And I have told you this 
in confidence, you know! So, I will be here when 
you come down. Aubviedersehen ! 

Listen! The echo of another more distant fare- 
well floats out through vanished years from a rare 
morning in early autumn when the dear Meister 
called to me for the last time from the head of the 
worn stairway: “Aufwiedersehen!” 


290 


^‘MISS TRAUMEREI 


“Aufwiedersehen!” Ah! that echo has passed into 
eternity, too, and with it hopes never to be fulfilled. 
Now, as then, I seat myself on the settle before the 
house, and the tender memories of happy days crowd 
on me until I see the old rustic gate through blurred 
vision, and am glad that no one is near, for sentiment 
is for solitude only. The heaviest heart should wear 
a smiling face — it is so often the only comfort, we can 
give to those whose burdens are heavier than our 
own. 

See! This confession has effected its o.wn cure, 
and I think now with dry eyes of the silent gardens 
before me. 

Where are they of whose going and coming the 
Alice gate clicked record in the old student days? 

The press of two continents gives daily answer. 

I myself have seen one, a foreigner, winning ova- 
tions in America; another writes of triumphs in Rus- 
sia; a third is astonishing the entire musical world 
with his transcendental virtuosity; a fourth is coming 
to the front in Vienna; a fifth is playing his way to 
popularity and greatness in Germany; I run face to 
face with a sixth in the streets of a great city; and, 
from time to time, kindly New Year’s greetings, a 
few hasty lines, or the marked copy of a journal, sent 
from an American or foreign capital, bespeak the 
whereabouts or prosperous careers of others. 

Why have they all separated forever? Why this 
unbroken silence where once the soul of music, living, 
gave succor and everlasting life to worlds without. 

For answer, go to Bayreuth. 


^<MrSS TRAUMEREI^^ 291 

From an inscription on a laurel-strewn tomb in 
the old city cemetery you will glean the following : 

Franz Liszt. 

Died July 31, 1886. 

The dear Meister! Generous to a fault, lovable 
and loving. His works live in history — his memory 
in the innermost hearts of his grateful pupils. 

Out of all the alluring life which his presence in 
Weimar fostered, the musicales at the artistic home 
in Schwanseestrasse alone survive. Yet they too 
are changed, as the vacant chair before the piano 
gives mournful evidence, and, with few exceptions, 
the guests are strange to us. 

Were the sisters Stahr not now at the seashore, I 
would beg permission to introduce you at one of their 
charming afternoons that you might inspect their rare 
and growing collection, and hear, possibly, a friend 
of the Liszt period play. Nor could I wish for better 
than fascinating Arna Trebor; for it would be, as 
Billow once wrote of her, “a feast for the eye as well 
as the ear.” 

Ah, it is hard to sever dear old associations, es- 
pecially such as have made Weimar, for almost four 
decades, the Mecca of every aspiring young pianist. 
When the warm days come, and the park and Allee 
once more don their verdant beauty, you will surely 
find there acquaintances made in this faithful, if mod- 
est sketch, revisiting the scene of treasured memories. 

Like them, we will not say “good-bye.” I cannot, 
when I look down upon the little city which contains 
the happiest reminiscences of my life. See it nest- 


292 


‘‘MISS TRAUMEREI 


ling confidingly in its midsummer sleep, close under 
the protecting heights of the encircling hills! In that 
eternal watch we leave it. Therefore, dear Weimar — 
it is not for long — Aufwiedersehen I 


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